


King

by meverri



Series: The End of All Things (Magnus Archives - LotR AU) [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Lord of the Rings Fusion, Background Basira/Daisy - Freeform, Background Gerry/Michael, Canon-Typical Violence, Eye Trauma, Mind Control, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meverri/pseuds/meverri
Summary: Jon awakens from six months of slumber. Martin works with Peter Lukas. Melanie fights for control. In the heart of Mordor, no one is safe, and Jon must deliver the Watcher's Crown to Hill Top before it's too late.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: The End of All Things (Magnus Archives - LotR AU) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900990
Comments: 29
Kudos: 25
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is the third and final part of my Lord of the Rings AU for the 2020 Rusty Quill Big Bang. If you haven't read parts 1 and 2 yet, go back and start there—this won't make sense without them.
> 
> I'd like to give one final thanks to @[aibari](https://cthulu-time.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this fic! It was really fun to work together! (You should all check out their fic for this event—it's posted [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/63901378))
> 
> If you enjoy this fic/series, please leave a comment or kudos! I worked really hard on it, and I hope you like it. If you'd like to come chat, I'm on tumblr @[hundred-separate-lines](https://hundred-separate-lines.tumblr.com/).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Weapons, death threat

“Open your eyes, Archivist. You’ve made your choice. Why put it off any longer?”

It was dark when Jon awoke. Looking around, it quickly became clear that this was because he was in a cave, not because it was nighttime.

He stood, brushing off strands of spiderweb that clung to him like hair, and was pleasantly surprised to find that he was still wearing his clothing and pack, though he was covered in a fine layer of dust. He coughed a couple of times, his lungs only just remembering how to breathe after months of disuse.

He paused. _Months._ He didn’t know how he knew that, exactly, but he did, which meant…

“ _Martin._ ”

He glanced behind him. The tunnel that had once been coated in spiderwebs was now empty, though it was littered with the remains of that old webbing. He stepped through it carefully, his legs shaking (though not nearly as much as they should have been, which worried him).

When he emerged from the tunnel onto a rocky shelf, the air was cooler than he had expected. He shivered, grateful for the fact that he was far enough south for it not to be freezing. It was winter, if he’d been gone for as long as he suspected. He began to pick his way down the rocky path, following something in him that said it was the right way to go. As he did so, he reached for the Crown.

When he touched his chest, though, it was bare.

Jon froze. He cautiously patted at the skin around his neck, but it was no use; the Crown, along with the chain that had held it, was gone.

“Shit,” he muttered. “ _Shit._ ” He turned back towards the cave, but something in him knew the Crown wasn’t there; someone had taken it, and now it was gone.

Jon slid down to rest on his knees. Without the Crown, what use was moving forward? What possible reason could he have to keep going, if the sole purpose of his mission was gone? He was alone, lost in enemy territory, with the great and terrible Eye sweeping its gaze over Mordor, with no food or water, and now, with no Crown.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. The cool wind howled overhead. Jon tucked himself into an outcropping of rock and closed his eyes.

_Maybe I’ll fall asleep here,_ he thought. _Maybe I’ll just pass away, and no one the wiser. I can’t get back to the Shire without food, and I can’t go any further without help. What’s the point of me, if I’ve already failed?_

But somehow, Jon knew it wouldn’t be so simple. He hadn’t been sleeping for all those months—he had been caught somewhere between life and death, and he had chosen life, though it was a life unlike the one he had led before. The word “avatar” wasn’t one he wanted to apply to himself, but what other word was there? He belonged to the Eye now, and it would not let him go so easily.

The sky had begun to grow dark when he finally stood again and began to pick his way back down the mountainside. If nothing else, he could try to find out what had happened to Martin. Jon owed him that much, at least.

He had been walking for only a few minutes when he heard voices. He froze, trying to figure out how best to hide among the rocks, when he realized that they were speaking not the alien language of Mordor but the common tongue of the world of elves and men.

“… but we can’t be too careful,” the voice was saying. “We’ll steal military uniforms and sneak into their army. Do any of you know their language?”

“A little,” said another voice, this one twisting and tumbling over itself like water over rocks. “It’s one of the many little gifts that comes with the Distortion. I can do my best to teach you, but it’ll be a fight against my nature. Es Mentiras doesn’t deal in the business of direct knowledge. It prefers, you know, _mentiras._ ”

“In either case, we need to find Martin and Jon,” said a third voice. “Or the Crown, if they’re already dead.”

It was Melanie, and as soon as he recognized her voice, Jon realized that the first had been Basira’s. He stumbled forward, full of such relief and love that he didn’t even think to warn them of his approach until he was standing in front of them, firelight dancing off their skin, and he had a bow and a sword pointed at his face.

“Uh,” he said, raising his arms, “hello?”

Melanie frowned at him. “ _Jon?_ ”

Beside her was Helen, though she looked odd. Her hair curled into fractals that made Jon’s eyes ache, and he was suddenly reminded of the Distorted version of Michael he had met back in the tunnels. His heart sank; had neither of them been able to escape?

“Hi,” he said. “Where are Daisy and Tim?”

Melanie’s face sank, but so did Basira’s bow. “They’re dead,” said Basira matter-of-factly. “They died months ago. Gondor fell.”

“Oh,” said Jon. He faltered. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“We managed to escape,” Basira continued, gesturing for them all to sit. Jon did so, grateful for the fire’s heat. Melanie tossed him a jacket, and he slid it on. “We were hoping to find you and Martin here and to help you destroy the Crown. Where is Martin, by the way?”

Jon’s heart sank. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I haven’t exactly been lucid for the past six months.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Melanie asked. She did not lower her sword.

Jon explained everything: the swamp, Jude, Mike, the tunnels, Michael, and the spider. When he told them about Michael, Helen laughed.

“He’s taken to the Distortion far better than I would have predicted,” she said. “But he’s working for Magnus, or at least not working against him. Interesting. I would have thought he’d hate the man.”

“I don’t know why he was doing it,” said Jon. “Martin could still be in those tunnels, for all I know.”

Helen shook her head. “No, I’d feel it if he were,” she said. “I don’t know where he is. I’m sorry, Archivist, but I suspect your boy is lost in more ways than you know.”

Jon reached again for his neck. It felt strangely light without the weight of the Crown hanging around it, but he knew that he would never truly be free of its weight; he had made his choice, and now, he would have to live with it.

“I need to find him,” he said. “He could have the Crown. If he found me, if he thought I was dead, he might have taken it.”

“And if not?” Basira asked.

Jon shook his head. “If it’s truly gone, if Martin hasn’t taken it, then we may never get it back. The war may already be lost.”

“It isn’t lost as long as we’re still fighting it,” said Melanie. The firelight glinted off her sword. “I am the heir of Gondor. As long as I live and breathe, Gondor has not fallen, not really.”

Melanie finally lowered her weapon, but she kept her eyes on Jon’s every move. Basira explained how she and the others had escaped. Helen had been the one who smuggled them out, in the end; her tunnels had kept them hidden from Mordor’s army, even as they sneaked closer and closer to Mordor. Melanie had insisted on checking several villages along the way for any sign of Jon or Martin, which was why it had taken them so long to finally reach this mountain, and Helen could no longer use her passages without drawing the Eye’s attention. They would have to make the rest of the journey on foot.

“I’m just glad I found you,” said Jon. “I can’t imagine being alone, now. I don’t think I could stand it.”

The others fell into a grim silence. Jon realized that each of them was missing someone they loved; that the others had sat in their grief for months while he had slept, unaware of what he was missing. The knowledge of Tim and Daisy’s deaths had not hit him yet, not really, but he felt Martin’s absence like a wound.

“I’ll take first watch,” said Basira, after a long silence. “The rest of you, try to get some sleep.”

Jon was about to protest that he had been sleeping for months, but he could see the shimmer of unshed tears in Basira’s eyes, so he simply nodded. He lay down on his pack and curled under Melanie’s coat, basking in the warmth of the fire.

Before he could fall asleep, Jon felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Melanie kneeling over him, her hunting knife clutched in her hand. The firelight reflected off it, sending ribbons of light across their makeshift campsite.

“I know it isn’t really _you,_ Jon,” she hissed.

Jon propped himself up on his elbows. “What?”

“You may have fooled Basira, but you haven’t fooled me,” she whispered. “I _know_ it isn’t you. You’re one of _them._ ”

Jon’s heart fell. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m still me.”

“You belong to it now, don’t you?” Melanie asked, jerking her head toward the Panopticon. She raised her knife and pressed it to Jon’s thigh, just over the femoral artery. “You gave in to its power, and now you’re one of its things.”

“I had to make a choice,” Jon gasped. “I would have died.”

“ _Then you should have stayed dead._ ”

“Melanie,” Basira called. Her voice was gentle but firm. Melanie pulled her knife away from Jon’s thigh.

“I’m watching you,” she said. 

She turned and walked back over to Basira. Jon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and lowered himself to the ground. He pressed one hand to his thigh where Melanie’s blade had touched it.

_Where are you, Martin?_ he thought.

He did not sleep that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Depression, grief

Martin awoke, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and rolled out of bed to make some tea.

It was a grey day, as every day in Mordor had been. The little house in which he was staying sat on the edge of a vast piece of property, too dry for a farm but too large to be anything else. There was no sugar for his tea, and however long he steeped it, it always came out bland and lukewarm by the time it touched his lips. He munched on a piece of dry bread and stared out the window, waiting for Peter to return.

It had been a long six months.

He and Peter had retreated to the Lukases’ old property near the edge of Mordor’s territory. No one else lived here, as the rest of the family used the mansion on the property’s other edge. This small cabin had once belonged to a gardener, before the land had grown cracked and dry and lifeless. Now, it was where he stayed, hidden from prying eyes. Were Jon or the others to find him, they would kill him and take the Crown without a moment’s hesitation; as it was, Peter was the only obstacle between him and a thousand terrifying deaths, hundreds of miles from home.

It was a dreary existence, but not an empty one. Each day, Martin pored through old documents, trying desperately to find what Peter had only been able to dream about for the last ten years: evidence that a new power was coming to light.

Peter called it the Extinction. He claimed that it was the fear of the world ending—of volcanic eruptions and ice ages, of world-destroying wars and powers that could hardly be comprehended. In the two hundred years since Magnus had harnessed the power of the Eye and created the Crown, Peter believed, the Extinction had become a very real fear, and one whose ritual was coming soon.

As Peter had explained it, any power could take over the world if its members could construct a powerful enough ritual. Many had tried, including Peter himself, but none had succeeded. Magnus wanted the Crown so that he could complete his own ritual and create a world ruled by the Eye, but Peter believed the next ritual attempt would be for the Extinction, and he believed that the Crown could be used to stop that ritual—and, more importantly for Martin, that the ritual could be used to destroy the Crown without Martin ever having to reach Hill Top.

It was an intriguing premise, and without Jon to guide him through Mordor, Martin knew he’d never reach Hill Top with the Crown. The Eye was ever-watchful, and its servants were combing every inch of this land looking for the Crown. It was only Peter Lukas’s protection, with his power to keep Martin hidden in the Lonely, that was keeping Martin safe. At least, that was what Peter said.

Martin sat and pulled over another sheaf of old parchment, sipping at his lukewarm, flavorless tea. He pulled his jumper tighter around him, though that hardly ever helped. The Lonely’s chill would not be fought by a simple layer of yarn.

The parchment was an account of a famine in Rohan nearly fifty years ago. Martin perused it with disinterest, occasionally jotting down an important detail or date. Peter had been very clear about the importance of Martin’s work, but something about the Lonely made it very difficult to care, which was the entire reason why Martin had agreed to stay there.

It couldn’t remove his grief, not completely, but it did dull it. He thought of Jon nearly every day, but without any of that all-consuming pain that had buried him on the journey to the Lukases’ property. Instead, it was simply a dull, Lonely ache. Peter had encouraged Martin to forget about Jon completely, but Martin suspected his daily ritual of mourning had fed the Lonely enough that it wouldn’t mind if he indulged in it.

From somewhere outside of the little bubble of quiet around Martin’s desk, he heard the front door open. This was another of their daily rituals; Peter would come inside, check on Martin’s research, and generally make himself a nuisance.

When Martin had first met him, Peter had been relentlessly cheerful. At first, Martin had thought this was a way of luring him in by preying on his need for comfort following Jon’s death. Now, Martin knew better: Peter was just really, _really_ annoying.

“Hullo, Martin!” he called. “Got anything for me?”

Martin sighed and gestured to the stack of his own notes beside him. He didn’t look up as Peter strode over to his table and read them over, humming thoughtfully to himself. Every sound set Martin’s teeth on edge.

_God,_ he hated Peter.

This did nothing to deter the man, of course. He just kept on making noises and then, when he had finished with his notes, nodded. “That’s good, then,” he said. “And how are you getting on?”

Martin, in a near-superhobbit show of self control, did not roll his eyes. “Fine,” he said dully. “You?”

“Oh, Martin, you know that’s not what I mean,” said Peter. “I mean, have you got any updates?”

Martin sighed. Recently, Peter had taken an interest in Martin’s predilection towards the Lonely. He had recently acquired the ability to sort of fade into the background of any room in which he stood, though this was largely useless, as the only person Martin had seen in months was also part of the Lonely, and thus could see Martin whenever this happened. Still, he encouraged Martin to practice fading in and out of the world, and had applauded when Martin had managed to turn completely invisible for about a minute the week before.

“No new progress,” said Martin. “I can’t do it for any longer.”

Peter clicked his tongue. “Now, Martin,” he said, “what did I tell you about practicing?”

“I _have_ been practicing,” said Martin.

“No, no, not practicing invisibility,” said Peter. “I mean practicing detachment. When did you last think about him?”

_I’m always thinking about him,_ Martin thought. _Every second of every day, and I’m never going to stop. Not for you, and not for anyone._

Out loud, he said, “This morning.”

“Ah,” said Peter. “Now, you know what I’ve told you about that. Can’t really be Lonely if you carry him around everywhere, can you? And besides, it must be so tiring. Why not let him go?”

Martin wrestled with his anger and came out on top, though only barely. “I’m trying,” he said. “I think it’ll just take time.”

“You haven’t got much time at all,” said Peter. “I think the Extinction ritual will happen before winter’s end. We don’t have time for you to wallow.”

“I’m not _wallowing,_ ” Martin snapped.

Peter laughed. “That anger, too. We’ll sort you out, before the winter’s done. You know it’s the right thing to do.”

Martin just took a deep breath and returned to his reading.

“Well,” said Peter, when it became clear that Martin wasn’t in the mood to talk, “I’ll just leave you to it, eh?”

“Wonderful seeing you, as always,” said Martin.

Peter laughed. “And you, Martin. Good day.”

When the door was closed, Martin sighed, burying his head in his hands. He always felt dirty after talking to Peter, like he’d become a worse person just by being in Peter’s presence. He glanced down at the sheaf of parchment.

“All right, Martin,” he said. “Time to get to work.”

He rubbed at his eyes and began to read the next page.

  


* * *

  


Jon, Melanie, Basira, and Helen reached the base of the mountain the next afternoon. After nearly a full day of walking, Jon was exhausted, but the others wanted to press on until they could find a place with better shelter to make camp, so he followed after them with shaking legs and an aching head.

They wandered through scrublands with their weapons drawn. Jon, who had somehow managed not to lose his sword even after six months in a weird death-coma, was too tired even to lift it above his elbow. Instead, he stayed by Melanie’s side, even though her anger burned even hotter than the air.

They finally came upon an abandoned shed and, after checking it for any living inhabitants, made camp inside. The only furnishing was a large wooden coffin, which sat in the back corner and was wrapped tightly with chains. They all made the decision to ignore it, even once it began to rain and the coffin began to sing in eerie tones that made Jon’s headache that much worse. 

Melanie limped away for a short while to hunt and returned covered in blood, with two emaciated rabbits held in her left hand. It was hardly enough meat to fill any of their bellies, but they were running low on rations, so Melanie simply glared at anyone who’s stomach rumbled. Jon tried to ask about the blood and was met with a stony glare. He decided to keep quiet, thinking it would probably increase his chances of survival, and then fell asleep quickly when Basira volunteered to take first watch.

Jon’s dreams had been chaotic and frightening the night before, but also familiar. He had flitted between different places, watching as various Fears killed random passers-by or people who had ventured too close to their territories. He had even watched, frozen with horror, as Nikola had dragged Sasha down into that chasm, her fingers digging into Sasha’s flesh as they fell.

Tonight, Jon’s dreams were far less chaotic. He stood beside the coffin, though it was no longer wrapped in chains, and it stood many miles from that tiny shack. In fact, looking around, Jon realized he was in a city he did not recognize, covered in the bodies of Strangers and people alike. The area around him was rubble dotted with half-buried corpses, and at the center, two men were digging.

The men were identical, large and strong with unremarkable faces, and they made quick work of the rubble. From it, they pulled a short but stocky body. Jon realized with a jolt that it was Daisy, and with another jolt, that she was groaning.

“Daisy,” he tried to say, but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to look around, to find Basira, to tell her that Daisy was still alive, but he was frozen to the spot, staring hungrily at Daisy as she struggled against the grip of the two men.

They hauled her over to the coffin. She let out an angry scream, but she was too injured to do much more than twitch; the men carried her without any concern for her movements. Horrified, Jon watched as one of the men opened the coffin. They threw her inside as though she were a doll, as though she weighed nothing to them, and she fell into the darkness, screaming all the while.

Then, the men closed the coffin, picked it up, and left.

Jon awoke with a start. Basira sat in the doorway, smoking pipeweed and staring out at the night. Beside him, Melanie slept, and behind him, the coffin sang.

Jon’s heart sank. He knew, without a doubt, that Daisy was still in that coffin. Worse, he knew he couldn’t leave her there, not if he had any chance of saving her. He had lost Martin, and the chances of Melanie ever seeing Georgie again were slim. Tim and Sasha were dead, and Michael and Helen had been made monstrous, all because of Jon’s failure to destroy the Crown in time to save them. If nothing else, he _had_ to save Daisy.

He sat up slowly, hoping that the coffin’s song would cover the sound of any movement he made. He left his pack and his sword where they lay; they would be no use inside the coffin. He didn’t know what he would find, exactly, but he knew weapons would mean nothing against the Buried—and he Knew, horribly, that the Buried was exactly what he would find inside that coffin.

The key to the chains was sitting delicately on top of the coffin. How had they not noticed it before? Jon wondered if the key had even been there when they’d arrived, or if it had only appeared now that he knew he wanted to open the lock and make his way inside. His heart clenched with fear as he gripped the key in his scarred hand and opened the lock.

He slid the chains off the top of the coffin as quietly as he could, but they still clinked together ominously as they fell to the ground. Jon held his breath and turned, waiting to see if the others had heard. Melanie stirred, but did not wake; Basira hadn’t even moved.

Jon turned back to the coffin and eased open the heavy wooden lid. It creaked as it lifted to reveal a staircase leading down into a darkness so complete that it reminded Jon of Moria. His fingers shook where they clutched the lid, and for a moment, he wondered if he could really do this.

“Jon, don’t,” came a whisper from behind him.

Jon turned. Basira stood there, her bow and arrow aimed directly at him. Her pipe was still clenched between her teeth, its embers casting her face in an orange glow.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. “Daisy’s in there. I have to.”

Basira let in a small intake of breath, quick and sharp. Jon could see her hesitation in her eyes, could see that she was weighing the likelihood of Jon’s death against the possibility of seeing Daisy again, and he knew which decision she would make.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Then, before Basira could stop him, Jon climbed into the coffin and was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Claustrophobia/burial

The Buried, as it turned out, was claustrophobic, to say the least.

Jon squeezed past layers of rock and sand and silt and clay, inching his way down towards the place where Daisy’s fear felt the strongest. He passed people who had been compressed for years, for decades, people who clawed at the dirt until their fingers bled, people who hadn’t taken a full breath in centuries. Time was strange there, though that, at least, did not hurt him overmuch; the journey down was fast, which Jon suspected would not be true on the way back up.

At last, he reached a thick layer of sand that pressed into his nose and squeezed into his lungs and scratched at his eyes until all he could do was crawl forward, trying not to focus on the millions of tons of rock above him. He pulled himself forward, inch by inch, until he was pinned by claws rather than clay.

Whoever was above him was growling, and their claws tore at the skin on his arms until he was yelling with pain. When they spoke, it was in a growl, too, though this one sounded much closer to a human voice.

“You’re not _him,_ ” they said. “ _Stop taking my friends._ ”

“Daisy,” said Jon breathlessly. “Daisy, it’s me, it’s Jon. I’m here to get you out. I’m here to take you up.”

Daisy sobbed. “There is no _up!_ ”

Jon grabbed her wrists and squeezed. “There is,” he said. “There is. Think of Basira, Daisy. Where is she?”

Daisy flinched. Jon let go of her wrists, and she rolled off him, laying beside him and breathing slowly in-and-out, never quite taking a full breath. Jon did the same, feeling the sand roll in and out of his lungs.

“It’s me, Daisy,” he said at length. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“But how?” Daisy asked. “How can we possibly go home?”

“Don’t worry,” said Jon. “I’ll lead the way.”

  


* * *

  


“I need you to collect something for me,” Peter said.

Martin glanced up at him, confused; he hadn’t noticed Peter coming in. “What?”

“It’s on the other end of the property, in the shed. I need you to go there and get it, and then I need you to come back. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“But what do you need me to get?” he asked.

Peter shrugged. “Just some old maps. They should be sitting on a desk in there. We’ll need them for our journey.”

Martin sighed. “And you want me to grab them now? I was kind of in the middle of something.”

Peter grinned. “No time like the present!”

Martin rolled his eyes and grabbed his pack. “I’ll be back by nightfall,” he said.

“I’ll be waiting. We’ll leave as soon as you return.”

“And where are we going? Or is that a secret, too?”

“Oh, Martin,” said Peter. “So many questions. So little time to answer them. Chop, chop!”

Martin strode out the door, slamming it behind him. The door was quiet when it shut, even with all the force Martin had put behind it. For a moment, he was so blindingly angry that it was like a beacon, shining through the Lonely and guiding him out.

Then, he took a deep breath and let the emotion leave him.

The walk to the shed took longer than he had expected. It was well into the afternoon by the time Martin found it. The Lonely was weaker here than it was near the house, and he shivered in its absence. He’d brought as much of it with him as he could, but his grip on the Lonely was still weak, and its protection wouldn’t last long. Bracing himself, he set one hand on the door to the shed and pushed it open.

Inside were Melanie, Basira, and Helen, all staring at him like they were seeing a ghost.

“Um,” he said. He had to fight to keep the Lonely drawn around him, to avoid succumbing to the overwhelming relief at seeing the others, at knowing for a fact that they were alive. “Hi?”

“Martin?” said Basira. “But… but how…?”

“Never mind that,” said Martin flatly. “I haven’t got long. I’m looking for something.”

He glanced around the room. In the rear was a large coffin, which seemed to be humming, which Martin decided was too much trouble to question. On his left was a large desk covered with parchment. He supposed those were the maps, and strode over to the table to retrieve them.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll be going, now. Nice to see you all.”

“Wait, Martin,” said Basira. “Jon said you were—”

Martin promptly dropped all of the maps onto the ground. His heart thudded in his chest, and he whirled around to face the others. “What?”

“Jon said he hadn’t seen you in _months_. He was worried about you, Martin. He said you had the Crown.”

“Jon’s alive?” Martin asked.

Basira and Melanie exchanged troubled glances. “He was last night,” said Melanie carefully. “Well, something that looked like him, anyway.”

“No. No, that can’t be,” said Martin, struggling to keep his breathing even. “I saw him. He wasn’t breathing, he didn’t have a heartbeat, he can’t be alive! That spider killed him, and— and I took the Crown, because he wasn’t going to be able to destroy it, and— He’s dead.”

Basira shook her head. “No, Martin. He came here with us.”

“Where is he, then?” Martin demanded. “Where is he, if he came here with you?”

With some trepidation, Basira nodded towards the coffin. 

Martin glanced at it again. The singing had grown louder since he had entered the room. He looked back at Basira, and she sighed.

“Six months ago,” she said, “Tim and Daisy died. Gondor fell. We escaped and decided to come find you two. When we got here, Jon was alone. He said you’d taken the Crown, and he didn’t know if you were alive.

“Last night, we decided to stop here and make camp. This coffin was just sitting here, singing, and we all had dinner. Then, in the middle of the night, I turned around and Jon had it open. He said—”

She stopped and breathed for a moment, her eyes closed as though she was in pain. Then, very quickly, she said, “He told me Daisy was in there, and he was going to get her, and then he climbed in and the door shut and now we’re just _waiting._ ”

Martin stood there in stunned silence for a moment. It certainly sounded like something Jon would do, but he didn’t want to believe it. He hated thinking that Jon had been alive, and that he had just abandoned him, that he’d left him in that cave for months and—

_Focus, Martin. You need to get back._

The fact was, Martin wasn’t sure if Peter was right about the Extinction, but he also saw a critical advantage in staying with him: if Peter and Martin went off and caused trouble, it might be enough to distract the Eye from Jon’s journey.

That was why, with shaking fingers, Martin pulled the chain over his head and handed the Crown to Melanie.

Her eyes went wide as she did so, and she shook her head. “I can’t,” she said. “Martin, I _can’t._ ”

“Just until Jon comes back,” he said. “I need you to hold it for him. Please, can you do that for me?”

Melanie shook her head again. “Why can’t you give it to him?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Martin. He let the Lonely bleed into him a bit more, let it pull away the part of him that longed, more than anything, to stay here and stand vigil until Jon emerged from that coffin, to pull Jon close and hold him and never let him go again. “I need you to trust me. Will you do this for me?”

“I will,” said Basira. Martin glanced at her and saw that hardness in her eyes, the determination she held in every inch of her body. “And when you see him again, he’ll thank you for it.”

Martin handed the chain to her and nodded. Then, as if in a trance, he walked to the side of the coffin and placed his hand on its lid.

“I’ll see you again, someday,” he said. He bent over and kissed the smooth wood, remembering the way he had kissed Jon’s cool forehead so many months ago. “I promise.”

Then he drew the Lonely around himself once again. “Goodbye,” he said, without looking at the others. He gathered up the maps and left.

As he closed the door, he heard a clamor from inside the shed. Someone was shouting Jon’s name, and someone else was shouting Daisy’s, and there was a great deal of coughing. Martin knew, without a doubt, that he had only to turn around and greet them, that he would be welcomed back into their circle with open arms.

Instead, he kept on walking, and he did not turn back.

  


* * *

  


“ _Think of Basira,_ ” Jon said.

He brought up every memory he had of Melanie and Basira, of the way Melanie’s black hair shimmered in the sunlight, the way Basira’s hands were firm around her bow. He thought of their loyalty, of the way they had defended him so fiercely in Moria and before, how Helen’s sweets had tasted back in the Shire. He thought of fresh air and green grass and the night sky, and he climbed.

Mostly, though, he thought of Martin. He felt so close, like Jon would emerge from that coffin and see him standing there, see those curls and those freckles and know, without a doubt, that he was safe.

Even without the Crown, Jon tasted the Eye's power, felt it buzzing behind his eyes, under his tongue, as he pulled the two of them closer to the surface. He didn't want to think about the implications of his ability to access that power without the Crown's help, so he kept Martin's face in the front of his mind. 

Jon kept pulling Daisy upwards. Something pulled him along, too, some anchor to the world outside that wretched place. He fought for every inch, scrambling against the rocks, hauling them both upwards until, at last his hand touched solid wood.

Daisy’s hand joined his, and they pushed with all their might. The coffin’s lid opened with a creak, and then Jon hauled himself over the side, coughing out sand and soil onto the solid ground of the shed.

“Jon!” Melanie cried.

“Daisy!” Basira shouted.

Jon couldn’t focus enough to know what, exactly, was going on. Strong hands hauled him out of the coffin and he knelt, struggling to breathe. He blinked the sand from his eyes to reveal Melanie, who was patting his back firmly in an attempt to knock the sand out of his lungs. He tried to speak, but his mouth was full of silt.

He turned his head to see Daisy and Basira clinging to each other. Daisy was still coughing, and tears ran down her face, leaving tracks through the dirt that clung to her cheeks. Her fingers were tightly wound into Basira’s sleeve. Basira kissed her cheek again and again, sobbing her name like a prayer.

Jon turned back to Melanie. Her face was grim.

“What?” he managed to croak.

Melanie handed him a waterskin. He drank greedily, not caring enough to rinse the dirt from his mouth. Melanie had to tear the waterskin away when he began to choke again, coughing up water and soil onto the ground.

“What happened?” he asked again, when he could breathe.

“Martin was here,” Melanie said. “He was here, and he gave Basira the Crown, and then he left, but he was here, Jon. He’s alive.”

Jon clutched at Melanie’s arm. “What?” he asked. “When? Is he still—”

“He left just as you were climbing out of the coffin,” she said. “He said— Jon, wait—”

But Jon was already on his feet. He stumbled to the door of the shed and flung it open, then stumbled outside. The shed was shrouded in a pale mist, cool and damp, and he peered out into it.

“Martin!” he called. “ _Martin!_ ”

His voice echoed through the empty field as he took a step forward. Within seconds, Melanie had grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to a stop.

“You _can’t,_ Jon,” she said. “We can’t let anyone know we’re here.”

“But he was _here,_ ” Jon gasped. “You said. You said you saw him. You said he was alive.”

Melanie wrapped her arms around Jon’s shoulders as he began to shake. “You idiot,” she said. “You’re going to get us all killed.”

Jon stumbled, all the fight going out of him at once. He rested his head against Melanie’s shoulder, and though she went tense, she let him rest. He was exhausted and aching from what had felt like days in the Buried, though he suspected it hadn’t been more than a few hours in the real world. He was still covered in dirt, and blood trickled from his worn fingers. Even if Martin would wait for him, Jon would never catch up.

“Come on,” said Melanie. “Let’s get inside.”

Jon nodded. He stared out the door one last time, straining to catch sight of a figure in the fog, but there was no one; Martin was gone. With sorrow heavy in his heart, Jon allowed Melanie to lead him back inside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!

“So,” Peter said, as they walked along a darkening path, “you saw Jon.”

Martin shook his head. “I saw the others,” he said. “Jon wasn’t there.”

“But he’s alive,” said Peter.

Martin nodded.

“And how are we feeling about that?”

Martin took a deep breath. “I don’t feel anything,” he said, letting the Lonely fill his lungs with fog.

Peter smiled. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s very, very good, Martin.”

  


* * *

  


“We’ll leave in the morning,” said Melanie. “We’ve been here for too long. If the Eye finds us here, it’ll kill us.”

Daisy nodded, and Basira sighed. “Stop moving your head,” she said softly. When Daisy had stilled, she returned to her task, cutting her hair as short as she could with her hunting knife.

“Are you sure you’ll be ready?” Jon asked Daisy.

Daisy shrugged. Her strong arms had grown skinny with disuse after months in the Buried, and she looked pale and sickly. She had no armor and had been forced to borrow one of Jon’s shirts and a pair of trousers from Melanie. She hadn’t slept much the night before, and had kept all of them awake with screams as she had awoken from her nightmares, from which the others could offer no relief—Basira’s one attempt at a comforting embrace had brought Daisy to panicked tears, and she had struggled against blankets, arms, and even her own hair as it wrapped around her neck.

“I’ll have to be, won’t I?” she asked. “We have to keep going.”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Jon pointed out. “If you can’t continue, then I can keep going alone.”

“We’re not abandoning you, Jon,” Basira sighed. “We’ll just have to go slowly. It’s already been months; the world can wait a little longer.”

“I don’t want to force anyone else to fight for me,” said Jon. He didn’t say that he didn’t want anyone else to die for him, because he figured that was implied.

“We’re not leaving, Jon,” said Daisy. “We’re with you ‘til the end.”

“It’s dangerous,” Jon said.

“The whole world is dangerous now,” said Daisy.

So they went on their way. Their mission now was to make it to Hill Top as quickly as they could without being seen by the Eye or its disciples. They clung to the edges of the Lonely—for Jon Knew that was the domain that sheltered them, even as the thought of Martin becoming its servant made him sick—until they had passed out of its territory. The air grew dark and smokey, leaving their lungs burning. At one point, it became so difficult to breathe that Daisy grew convinced that they were trapped in the Buried. She fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Basira lifted her in her arms and carried her through the smokey air until they found a place where it was possible to breathe again, and then held Daisy as she shook with the aftershocks of her panic.

“We’ll rest for the night,” Melanie decided. “We’ve covered a lot of ground today. I’ll set up camp.”

Jon helped silently, enveloped in his own worry. They hadn’t made it very far at all, and it had been at the expense of Daisy’s strength and sense of safety. Jon feared that, if they kept moving at the same pace, it would be months before they reached Hill Top. What would have become of the world by then?

Daisy sat beside him at dinner. She was quiet, for the most part, though occasionally her head would snap to attention at a far-off noise, or she would scent the air eagerly before shaking her head and running her fingers through her newly-short hair.

“Don’t,” she muttered. “Don’t, don’t. Don’t listen to it.”

“ _Don’t listen to what?_ ” Jon asked.

“The blood,” said Daisy. “The anger, the Hunt, the monsters – I don’t want to listen to any of it. I hated the Buried, but at least it was quiet.” Then she paused. She touched her lips absently. “What did you just do?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” said Jon. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“What did you _do?_ "

“I…” Jon sighed. “I don’t know, exactly. I think the Crown is doing something to me. It’s making me less… Less a person, I guess. When Martin thought I was dead, he wasn’t wrong to do so; something changed about me, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to fix it. I can make people answer my questions truthfully, I suppose.” 

Daisy nodded. “All right,” she said. “Thanks for being honest. Try not to do it again.” 

“I can’t really control it.” 

“I think you’ll have to learn,” she said. “Or not ask at all. I… It hurts, not to give in to the Hunt. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t want to be that person again.” 

“You don’t have to be,” said Jon. 

“I refuse to be,” said Daisy. She met his eye. “I know what that Crown is doing to you,” she said. “I can smell it on you. It takes everything in me not to gouge your eyes out right this second.” 

“You could,” said Jon. “I doubt I could stop you.” 

Daisy shook her head. “It wouldn’t be right,” she said. “Not if you didn’t choose it. Not if you couldn’t fight back.” 

Her words were bitter, tinged with anger and regret. Jon chose not to press her, instead holding out one hand to her on the ground. She took it, squeezed it, and sighed. 

“I don’t want to listen to the blood,” she said. 

“Then don’t,” Jon said softly. “Listen to the quiet.” 

They sat in silence together as Basira and Melanie set up camp. Helen watched them with her eternal headache smile, eyes following every movement with a hunger Jon thought he might understand. He held Daisy’s hand until it was time to sleep, until Basira tucked herself beside Daisy and Jon got into position for first watch. 

"Listen to the quiet,” he heard Daisy mutter to herself, and he sat back to watch the fire dance. 

  


* * *

  


“So what, exactly, do you think the Extinction is planning?”

Martin kicked at a pebble as he walked. The air was hotter here, though Peter kept the Lonely’s cool fog drawn around them as they went. They had been walking for nearly two days without rest, though Martin couldn’t feel his own exhaustion; the Lonely had dulled even his need to sleep, the burning in his legs or lungs, and he found it was easier to keep walking than to ask Peter if they were ever going to stop.

“I suspect,” said Peter, “that their ritual will involve Hill Top. It’s an active volcano, you know.”

“I suppose that’s as good a place as any for the fear of mass death to manifest into an eldritch horror.”

Peter grinned. “Exactly!” he said. “So you see why we’re heading in that direction.”

“But what are they going to do, exactly? And, for that matter, who are we trying to stop?”

Peter sighed. “I had hoped your research would be more illuminating, Martin, but honestly, I don’t know. There’s a great many possibilities, and any of them is as likely as the next. It could be that the Extinction will try to manipulate avatars of another power, like the Lightless Flame—”

“The Desolation?”

Peter nodded. “It is a volcano, after all. It may try to manifest through one of their rituals, or perhaps one for the End. Then again, it may already have followers—there are tales of whole villages dancing their way to death, then spreading the "dancing plague" to other villages. There's the threat that one kingdom will entirely destroy another, leaving no survivors. Anywhere could be a site for a possible ritual."

“So we’re looking for, what, anything that looks like a ritual for too many of the Fears?”

“Anything that could be an Extinction cult, too. Really, it could be anything out of the ordinary.”

Martin raised an eyebrow at that. Peter laughed.

“Out of the ordinary for Mordor,” he clarified. “Not whatever lovely little place you hobbits call home. Where is that, anyway?”

“Nowhere you would have heard of,” Martin said coolly.

“Ah, so we’re being mysterious now?”

“I thought prying was the Eye’s thing, not the Lonely’s.”

“Ouch,” said Peter. “Point made.”

They walked on in silence. Martin kicked at more pebbles as he went.

“It’ll all be over soon enough, in either case,” said Peter.

Martin could only hope he was right.

  


* * *

  


Jon and Helen took the first watch. The air was clearer than it had been, but every so often would come a wisp of smoke from some far-off flame, and as it passed Helen by, it would spiral into intricate little shapes. Helen seemed to be making some sort of game of it, though its rules were inscrutable to Jon. He simply watched the smoke fold in on itself and tried to form a plan.

“We can’t keep going like this,” he said to her, after nearly an hour of silence.

“You’re probably right,” she replied.

Jon waited, but she didn’t seem to have anything more to add, so he said, “I think I have to leave them.”

“And what will you do on your own, Archivist?” Helen asked. “You didn’t seem very keen on independence when you joined us.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He glanced up at the night sky. It was covered in dark clouds, far too thick for any stars to peek through.

“Will you abandon your friends?” Helen asked. “Daisy’s barely holding on, and Melanie—Well. That old arrowhead’s certainly causing her trouble, isn’t it?”

“I know,” said Jon. “We’re moving slower than I’d like.”

“That isn’t quite what I mean.”

From behind Jon came another voice, familiar, twisting in the same way as Helen’s. “I know what you want,” said Michael. “I can show you why it won’t work, if you like.”

Jon turned. Michael leaned against a yellow door, grinning from ear to ear. “How?” he asked.

“You simply have to open the door,” Michael said.

Jon eyed him with suspicion. “ _Is it dangerous?_ ” he asked.

“Not physically,” said Michael. “Emotionally, perhaps, but it’s something you’ll need to see. You need to understand.”

Jon stood, hesitant. He made his way over to the door without taking his eyes off Michael. Michael simply smiled at him as he approached, then rested one twisted hand on the door handle.

“Are you ready, Archivist?” he asked.

Jon nodded. “Show me.”

The door swung open.

At first, it was hard to tell what, exactly, Michael was trying to show him. It was just as dark on the other side of the door, and though there was no smoke in the air, it was tinged with pale mist, just like the mist that had surrounded the shed. Jon recognized it instantly as the Lonely, though this was not part of the Lonely’s domain; someone had deliberately pulled the Lonely around themselves, and this had been the result.

Jon peered out into that darkness. He rested one hand on the door frame and leaned in, squinting. A little ways away, he could almost make out a fire.

Then, without warning, a face popped into view.

“ _Martin,_ ” Jon breathed.

It was indeed Martin, looking very perplexed. He had been standing on the other side of the door as it opened, and as he stepped into view, his eyes landed on Jon. Martin’s face went slack, then, resumed its perplexed expression. It had shifted, though, and now it was muted and cool, almost dull. He said nothing.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked. “Are you safe?”

“I can’t talk right now,” said Martin.

“Oh. Are you… Please, can you just tell me if you’re safe?”

Martin sighed. “Goodbye, Jon. Good luck.”

He made to close the door. Jon grabbed for the door at the same time. His hand landed on top of Martin’s, which was cold to the touch. Jon shivered.

“I have to go,” said Martin. “Please let me close the door.”

“I miss you,” Jon blurted out.

His words hung in the air for a moment. Martin stared blankly at him, and Jon watched as tendrils of Lonely fog wrapped themselves around him, enveloping him until he was hazy, like he was only half-there.

“Good luck, Jon,” said Martin quietly. He used his free hand to pull Jon’s arm away from his. Then, quietly but firmly, he closed the door, leaving Jon speechless on the other side.

Jon could have sworn that, as the door closed, a couple wisps of fog wrapped themselves around him, too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Forced surgery, blood, weapons

“Can you feel the Eye?” Peter asked. “We’re getting close to its domain. If you’ve got any last doubts, now’s the time to raise them.”

“I haven’t,” said Martin. The mist around them grew thicker.

“That’s a relief,” said Peter. “Soon you’ll have to make a choice, and I’d rather you made the right one.”

Martin just nodded. He no longer felt even the slightest trace of fear; the mist had taken root inside him, and only numb determination remained.

“I’m very proud of you,” said Peter.

Martin did not answer.

  


* * *

  


“We need to move faster,” said Jon.

“Wait, wait,” said Basira. “So, you saw Martin, and he was surrounded by the Lonely.”

“Yes,” said Jon impatiently. “There isn’t much time. It was already inside him. I’m afraid that he’ll be lost if we don’t save him soon.”

“But he doesn’t want to be saved,” Basira pointed out. “He closed the door.”

“I _know,_ ” Jon replied. “He must have some sort of plan. You said he asked for us to trust him, and I do, but—”

“It’s all right to worry, Jon,” said Daisy. “You just… you have to trust that he knows what he’s doing.”

“But he isn’t safe!”

“That’s his concern,” said Daisy. “He’s an adult. He can handle himself.”

“I think he’s being manipulated,” said Jon. “I think I left him alone, in this horrible place, and he didn’t know what to do, and someone took advantage of him, and—”

“Jon,” said Melanie, “we don’t have time for this. We need to keep moving. He isn’t in any immediate danger.”

“He’s in trouble, and he needs help.”

Melanie glared at him. “It doesn’t really matter, Jon. We can’t get to him. He’s moving much faster than we can, and we don’t have a way to catch up. Even if we did, do you really think he’d listen? It sounds like he wasn’t exactly receptive to your attempt last night. Which, by the way, was a really great idea! Thanks for showing him exactly where we are.”

“We can trust Martin.”

“Can we?” Melanie asked. “For all we know, he’s turned into an avatar by now. There’s certainly a precedent.”

“Please,” said Basira, “can we just get going?”

Jon rubbed a hand across his face, probably smearing it in more dirt and ash. The sky had grown ever-darker as they had approached the center of Mordor, but they were still miles and miles from Hill Top. Something in Jon knew that Martin was too far to reach by foot, though he wasn’t sure if that was because he was walking too quickly or because the Lonely had taken him nearly out of Jon’s reach for good.

Melanie scowled. “We keep moving,” she said. “Come on.” She turned on her heel and stormed away, pulling at the straps of her pack. Basira and Daisy exchanged meaningful looks. After a moment’s hesitation, Basira followed after Melanie. Daisy stayed behind Jon, nudging him forward with her elbow. 

“We’ll find him,” she said. “At least we know he’s alive.”

“I know,” said Jon. He ran his hand through his tangled hair. “I know, I just… I need him to be okay.”

“He will be,” said Daisy. She sounded so sure that, for a second, Jon almost believed her.

“All right,” he said. “All right. Let’s go.”

They had made little progress throughout the morning. Melanie’s limp, which had been growing more pronounced throughout their journey, had become even more dramatic after their argument, and Daisy’s energy was falling quickly. Jon was quickly realizing that he couldn’t continue with the others, but he didn’t know how to convince them of that fact. He also didn’t know how he could leave them behind; Mordor was dangerous, and the Eye’s protection was probably the only thing keeping the others alive. Magnus wanted the Crown to come to him, and he wouldn’t impede Jon’s journey until Jon diverged from his desired path. Without Jon, the others would just become another obstacle to Magnus gaining control of the Crown, and Jon couldn’t see a future in which they weren’t attacked and killed within a day.

Perhaps if Helen could get them out. If Helen could take them out of Mordor, then they’d be much less of a threat to Magnus. It could even be enough to keep them safe until Jon could destroy the Crown. He didn’t bother worrying about what would happen if he couldn’t destroy it; at that point, there would be no safety for anyone, save perhaps the king of that ruined world.

Helen had said something that still itched at the back of Jon’s mind. As they walked, he gave himself time to think about it: “ _That old arrowhead’s still causing her trouble,_ ” and then, when Jon had remarked on her limp, “ _That isn’t quite what I mean._ ”

Jon sneaked a glance at Melanie. Something about her had shifted since he’d fallen to the Eye, though he’d been doing his best to ignore it. It would be so easy to Look, to Understand…

Jon pressed one finger to the ring around his neck. Though he no longer needed it to Ask—the Eye had seen to that—it still made things clearer, made it easier to See the power radiating from a small wound in Melanie’s thigh.

The Slaughter.

Its arrowhead still sat beneath her skin, burrowing into her anger and amplifying it. It had turned her into this creature of fury, the one who suspected Jon was more than he seemed. She wasn’t wrong, exactly, but this was why she had been so adamant. This was consuming her.

It had to come out.

She would never forgive him for taking it. Jon knew the pull of Fear. He knew how it fed. He knew Melanie would never give it up willingly, and he knew it would kill her if he left it.

As for catching up with Martin, well, that would be easier without the need for constant rest. Jon thought of all the times he had healed and grimaced; perhaps his body no longer needed to stop. Perhaps he could keep moving until he was standing in front of Martin, until Martin could see how badly Jon needed him, how badly—

That night, then. That night, Jon would pull the Slaughter out of Melanie. That night, Jon would leave. That night, he would make his way to Martin.

He only hoped he would not be too late.

  


* * *

  


The Panopticon grew out of the mist of the Lonely like a great, looming shadow, all dark stone and crumbling facade. They stopped at its entrance, and Martin frowned.

“Why are we here?” he asked. “I thought we were trying to avoid the Eye, not showing up at its front door.”

“We’re going to use the Panopticon to see into the Extinction,” said Peter. “Hopefully, we can learn enough about it to stop its birth. If not, we can at least weaken the Eye. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Martin nodded but said nothing as Peter opened the imposing iron door to the Panopticon. It swung open silently, muffled by the Lonely’s fog. Beyond it was a hallway, and to the left, a staircase that spiraled up the side. Martin could guess that the stairs extended all the way to the top of the tower, and if it weren’t for that same numbing Loneliness, he would dread the walk.

“Ready?” Peter asked, voice still infected with that awful cheer.

Martin nodded, and they both began to climb.

  


* * *

  


Night fell around them, bringing little relief from the burning air. They lay their packs in a circle. Basira built a fire at its center. Its orange light danced on the barren ground, barely bright enough to pierce through the smoke that had surrounded them for days. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Daisy said. Basira nodded, exhausted, and laid down beside her to sleep. Jon did the same, closing his eyes and forcing his breathing to become slow and even. He listened as Melanie shifted, then turned to check that she had fallen into a fitful sleep.

He would have to be fast. Cutting her thigh would wake her within seconds; she would fight to stop him from taking the arrowhead. He turned the problem over in his mind as Melanie fell deeper and deeper into sleep, but even with all his concentration, he could not solve it.

“What are you planning?” Daisy asked.

Jon startled. He hadn’t realized anyone was paying attention. Daisy raised an eyebrow, and Jon’s cheeks burned.

“Um,” he said.

“I mean, I know you’re planning on leaving,” she elaborated. “You’ve wanted to for a while. I’m surprised you haven’t gone already.”

“What?”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t stop you. I know you need to get your boy. I think you’re right about him needing your help. I’m just wondering why you haven’t gone yet.”

Jon sighed. If he was looking for a solution, this was an interesting one, even if it was imperfect.

“Melanie’s been taken by the Slaughter.”

Daisy nodded. “I’ve been trying not to smell it on her,” she said. “It’s been that way since she got shot.”

“The arrowhead is still inside her,” Jon explained. “At least, a fragment is. If I can take it out, she can heal.”

“But she’ll never agree,” Daisy said. She nodded. “All right. I’ll hold her down.”

Jon frowned. “I didn’t—”

“Look,” said Daisy. “It took six months trapped in that damn coffin to loosen the Hunt’s grip on me. I know how the Fears can take you. Someday, I hope you can escape the Eye. In the meantime, though, if I can help Melanie, I’ll do it. Doesn’t matter if she’ll hate me for it. Someday, she’ll be grateful.”

Jon paused. There was something desperate in Daisy’s eyes, a burning need that Jon hadn’t noticed before. He wondered just how hard she had to fight to keep the Hunt at bay.

“Besides,” she said, “at least I’ll be able to do something useful.”

“Daisy,” Jon sighed, but Daisy shook her head.

“The longer you hesitate, the more likely she is to wake up,” Daisy said. “I assume you’re leaving as soon as it’s out? She’ll probably kill you if you stay.”

Jon nodded. He turned, and Helen was sitting on a rock behind him, her yellow door beside her.

“I’m ready when you are,” she said.

Jon turned back to Daisy. He nodded. “All right. Let’s do this.”

Daisy positioned herself above Melanie, hands raised and ready to hold her down. Jon brandished his sharpest knife above Melanie’s thigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then he brought down his blade.

It was chaos. Jon managed to cut open her skin without trouble, but Melanie awoke as soon as the blood started to flow. She screamed, slashing at Jon with her knife, which she had been holding beneath her pillow. Jon ducked, barely missing her blade. She slashed again and caught Jon across the arm. Daisy held her firm, but she struggled, her thigh shaking too much for Jon to remove the arrowhead.

“Hold _still,_ ” Daisy grunted. “We’re trying to help you.”

Melanie spit in her face. “ _Go fuck yourself._ ”

Basira, who had been awakened by the noise, dashed forward. She hesitated as she approached, clearly unsure of whom to help.

“Babe, her knife,” Daisy grunted.

Though she was clearly unsure of herself, Basira stepped forward and wrestled the knife out of Melanie’s hands. Melanie cried out, a low, keening wail that reminded Jon of a wounded animal.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped again. He reached down with his blade once more, hoping to dig the arrowhead out of Melanie’s thigh, but she jerked herself back. Jon pulled his knife away once more, trying desperately not to wound her any further.

“This is ridiculous,” said a voice to Jon’s left. He jumped, startled by its closeness.

Helen grinned. She glanced down at Melanie, and for a moment, there was something very human in her eyes—pity, maybe, or even sympathy. “This will hurt,” she said.

Helen dug her sharp fingers into Melanie’s thigh. Melanie screamed, and Basira clapped a hand over her mouth, cutting it off. The scream still echoed through the rocks, and Daisy glanced around nervously.

Melanie struggled, weaker this time. Helen pulled her fingers away, and there, clutched between them, was a small shard of razor-sharp stone.

“There,” she said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Melanie bit at Basira’s finger. Basira ripped her hand away from Melanie’s mouth, swearing. There were tears pouring down Melanie’s face, and she struggled. Daisy barely managed to avoid a well-aimed knee to the head.

“Let her go,” Jon gasped. “It’s over.”

Daisy glared at him. “She’ll kill you.”

Jon laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “She can’t.”

Reluctantly, Daisy loosened her grip on Melanie. Rather than leaping at Jon, Melanie scrambled back, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the others. When she had reached the other side of the fire, she pressed her palm against her bloody thigh.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” she snapped.

Jon opened his mouth to explain, knowing that there was little he could say to defend himself, but before he was able to speak, Daisy sniffed at the air.

“We aren’t alone,” she muttered.

Everyone froze. Even Melanie, who looked as though she was ready to murder all of them, kept her mouth shut. Jon strained his ears, listening for any sign of danger.

“What do we do?” he whispered.

Daisy sniffed the air again. Her face went pale. “We need to move,” she said. “They’re chasing us.”

“Who?”

Two Hunters. They’re well-bonded. We won’t stand a chance against them.”

Jon felt his heart drop into his stomach. “Trevor and Julia,” he said. “We met them, once, a long time ago. We didn’t know what they were, then. I’m so sorry.”

“There’s no time for apologies,” Basira snapped. “We need to hide.”

“They’ll find us,” said Daisy. “They’ll find us in a heartbeat. They’re after the Crown. Jon, you need to run.”

“What about the rest of you?” Jon asked.

Daisy shook her head. “You were already planning on leaving. We can hold our own.”

Basira made her way over to Melanie and helped her stand. Melanie looked exhausted and frightened, and Jon could See the Hunt pulling at Daisy’s soul. He hesitated.

“Are you sure?”

Daisy glared at him. “There’s no time. You need to go, now.”

“My door is waiting,” said Helen with a sickening smile.

“But—”

“Go, Jon!” Daisy shouted.

Jon sent one glance back toward Melanie. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am.”

Then he turned, ran through the door, and was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!

Daisy watched as Jon took a breath, visibly steeling himself for the journey. Then he laid a hand on the door handle and opened it to the swirling depths within. Within a moment, he had vanished into that incomprehensible place, and the rest of them were left behind.

“Right,” said Daisy. “On my cue, _run._ ”

“What?” Basira asked.

Daisy was exhausted. Their journey had been long, and the Hunt had nipped at her ankles with every step. Resisting its pull was a weary battle, and one she was winning at, she knew, great cost to the others; Jon had been ready to bolt for days, so eager to reach Martin was he, and had only held on for her sake, while Basira seemed almost frightened of this new Daisy, who was soft and brittle and could hardly stand an arm over her waist as she slept. The Buried had consumed her, body and soul, and spit out a version so alien that it was as though she had been reborn. She felt no desire to return to her old ways, but she felt terrible for the pain she was causing the others, even if she knew it was through no fault of her own.

In the end, it was an easy decision.

Daisy glanced back at Basira. She, like all of them, was covered in dust and dirt. In her arms, Melanie seemed almost small. They were both covered in Melanie’s blood. There was a speck of it just below Basira’s left eye. Basira’s eyes were a lovely dark brown. Daisy knew she would miss them.

“It was always borrowed time,” she said, smiling sadly. Basira shook her head, but it was too late. Daisy could feel the Hunt beginning to grow within her, its hungry maw closing around her. She had starved it for too long, and now, it was taking its revenge.

“Daisy!” Basira shouted, taking half a step forward. Melanie stumbled, barely able to hold her own weight on her injured leg. Daisy could only hope to slow the Hunters enough for them to escape.

“When you see me again,” said Daisy, “kill me.”

“No,” said Basira. There were tear tracks cutting through the mud and ash that covered her face. Daisy stared deep into those beautiful brown eyes and tried to memorize their exact hue. “No, Daisy, don’t.”

“ _Promise me,_ ” she said.

“Daisy—”

“Promise!”

“Okay,” Basira whispered. Her hands were shaking. “I promise.”

“Good,” said Daisy. Basira and Melanie stumbled back, their faces lighting up with fear. Daisy’s teeth grew sharp in her mouth, and her hands twisted into claws. Daisy fell to her knees as her bones shifted inside of her. She felt her body beginning to transform, and with her last dwarven thought, she growled.

“ _Run._ ”

  


* * *

  


It took hours, but Martin and Peter reached the top of the Panopticon. The stairs opened into a large, circular room, illuminated by the light of the great Eye above it. It was lined in stone that had been worn away by centuries of weather, due at least in part to the shattered windows facing each cardinal direction. It was bare aside from a throne at its center, and in the throne sat an old, decaying form.

“Who is that?” Martin asked, but he already knew the answer.

Jonah Magnus was more feeble than Martin had expected. He was decaying, his hair grey and long and brittle. He wore robes that were covered in dust and cobwebs. His eyes were held wide open, revealing the emptiness within.

“What are we doing here, Peter?” Martin asked.

“If we want to use the Eye,” said Peter, “we’ll need a volunteer.” He gave Martin a meaningful look.

Martin frowned. “But why me? Why not Jon, or Basira, or a thousand other people?”

“I needed someone touched by the Eye,” said Peter, “but also by the Lonely, if they were going to ally with me. You’ve been Lonely for quite some time, haven’t you, Martin? Since long before you lost Jon.”

Martin simply nodded, his mind going to his mother, to Jon’s general dismissal, to every step along their journey, to a childhood spent alone. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried not to let them shake.

“So, what?” he asked. “I have to kill him, and then take his place?”

“If it helps,” said Peter, “Jon knew him by another name. I believe it was ‘Elias.’ Did Jon tell you about that?”

Hearing the name jolted Martin back to those horrible tunnels, to weeks of wandering without sunlight, to their separation, to finding Jon dead and wrapped in webbing. His hands stilled.

“He did.”

“Then surely you don’t mind killing him. Not when you know the damage he’s caused. Not when you’ve been his victim just as much as Jon has. He’s the one who led Jon away from you. He’s the one who left you all alone. Why shouldn’t you be the one to kill him?”

“Oh, _really,_ Peter,” said a voice from behind them. “I don’t think that’s an entirely fair assessment. Do you?”

Martin turned. The man standing behind them was plain—dark hair, light skin, probably somewhere in his sixties. His eyes glowed green, an almost sickening color. Their gaze pierced Martin to the core.

“Magnus,” said Martin.

Jonah Magnus smirked. “Of course,” he said. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Martin. Well, to be perfectly honest, you are making my acquaintance; I’ve been aware of you for some time. I see Peter’s done quite a number on you.”

Martin reached for his sword. “What do you want from me?”

“Why would you kill me?” Magnus asked. His voice was smooth and deep, slick as oil. “We have no quarrel, you and I.”

“Martin, kill him,” said Peter. “Kill him, and take his place. You can save your friends. _Only you_ can save your friends.”

“Now, really, Peter,” Magnus asked, “why would I harm any of his little friends? Oh, dear, it seems they’re in ever so much trouble. It would be easy for me to spare them. Why should I spill their blood when it is of so little use to me?”

“What do you mean, they’re in trouble?” said Martin, his voice shaking.

“Oh, nothing of import,” said Magnus. “They’ve just run into a few of my friends.”

“Don’t listen to him, Martin,” said Peter. “Kill him. Don’t you want to stop the Extinction? Don’t you want to save Jon?”

“Oh, now, Peter, let’s not lie to the boy.” Magnus took on a false, somber expression. “If you kill me, it’s very likely that Jon will die. We are tied to each other, after all. I’ve been in his mind for months, by now. Of course, it’s likely that Jon will die, anyway, so do try not to let that influence your decision.”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Martin growled. “Just, just let me think for a moment.”

“Of course, Martin,” said Magnus. “Take all the time you need.”

Martin tried to think past the fog in his mind. He had come to this place with a plan; what had it been? What was the best course? How could he save Jon without losing the world?

“We don’t have time for this, Martin!” Peter shouted. “Kill him!”

And Martin, the bravest little hobbit of them all, said, “No.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. For a blessed minute, Peter Lukas stopped talking.

“What do you mean?” he asked. His voice had lost its usual cheer, and for the first time, Martin was able to feel just how dangerous the man truly was. His power had always been more theory than practice, at least in front of Martin, but now, with fog wreathing his fingers, Martin knew that Peter Lukas could end him in a heartbeat.

“I’m not killing him,” he said. “I’m done doing your dirty work for you. This has all been some, some ploy to take over Mordor, hasn’t it? Some power play against Magnus. Well, I’m done playing your games.”

“Don’t you understand?” Peter asked. “He’ll kill your precious Jon, take the Crown, and take over the world. You don’t want that, do you?”

Magnus raised a hand to his chest. With mock hurt, he said, “Oh, Peter, really. I would never hurt Jon. He’s as much a part of the Eye as I am. He just needs some… persuasion.”

“Just stop it, both of you!” Martin shouted. “I’m done! And Jon will be, too, once he hears about this.”

“Oh, Martin,” said Peter. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you? You think you’ll be able to tell Jon all of this? You think you’re leaving this room alive?”

Martin laughed, a bitter, broken thing. “Of course not,” he said. “But he’ll know anyway. And that just scares you to _pieces,_ doesn’t it?”

“Goodbye, Martin,” said Peter. “I really had hoped to continue working with you. You were such a nice little toy.”

“Be a dear, Peter, and leave the door open behind you,” said Magnus.

Peter just huffed and waved his hand.

Then Martin blinked, and the tower around him vanished.

  


* * *

  


Helen’s door opened at the base of the Panopticon.

“Oh, no,” Jon breathed. “He can’t be here already, can he?” He turned back to face Helen, dread heavy in his stomach, but she was already gone.

He turned back to the door to the Panopticon, which had been left open. It was intimidatingly large and heavy, cast in an iron dark enough to swallow him whole. He pushed past it anyway, fearing more than anything that Martin wouldn’t be there when he arrived.

The staircase that spiraled up the side of the tower was long, and if Jon hadn’t developed eldritch powers, he suspected he would have been exhausted in the first minute of climbing. As it was, he ran up the stairs as quickly as he could. Voices echoed down the hall, too faint and distorted for their words to be understood. There was definitely more than one, though, and if he focused, Jon swore he could hear Martin’s familiar voice among them. The sound propelled him forward, faster and faster, until he was nearly flying.

Then, horribly, the voices stopped.

Jon reached the top of the tower moments later. The room into which it opened was empty, save for an old, decrepit body sitting in a throne at its center. Jon crept forward, horrified, and then noticed the man standing beyond it.

“Hello, Jon,” said Elias. “I was so hoping to see you.”

“Elias,” said Jon, his voice wary. He glanced around the room again, but no Martin had appeared. “You were talking to someone.”

“Ah, yes. You’re looking for your little friend.”

“ _Where is he?_ ”

Elias laughed. “He’s just gone into the Lonely,” he said. “He won’t be returning. You can be certain of that. The Lonely likes to play with its food before it eats it, and depriving it of such a wonderful meal as Martin wouldn’t bode well for you.”

“ _How do I find him?_ ” Jon asked. He felt the Eye's grip on him tighten, but that didn’t matter. None of it mattered if he couldn’t get Martin back.

“They only just left,” said Elias. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find your way. Open your mind, Jon, and Look.”

Jon did. He could sense the trail they had left, the way it led into the Lonely, the fear Martin had felt as the world disappeared around him. He reached for his love for Martin like a tether, like a lifeline, like the one connection to the Shire he had left.

“Are you scared?” Elias asked.

“Yes,” Jon breathed.

“Good,” said Elias. Jon could hear his smirk in his voice.

Then he Looked, and stepped into the Lonely.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Suicidal thoughts, isolation, injury, blood

Melanie stumbled, pain lancing up her leg. She let out a muttered curse and kept moving.

Beside her, Basira was crying. She held Melanie with a fierce protectiveness that Melanie didn’t quite know how to handle. They were moving slowly, much more slowly than Melanie was comfortable with, but the sounds of wild animals locked in battle had finally faded behind them. Melanie wondered if they’d be able to hear Daisy dying, if it came to that.

_No,_ she thought. _Don’t worry about that. Just keep moving. One foot, then the next._

Anger and fear propelled her forward. The land had transformed from hills and rock to a flat expanse, and Melanie knew there was nowhere left to hide. The only thing to do now was to reach the Panopticon and end Jonah Magnus or die trying. If they could kill him, Jon would have a free shot at Hill Top and at destroying the Crown. That was their mission, now. Anything else was secondary.

“This way!” Basira muttered. She began to tug Melanie toward something that looked like a large pile of rubble sitting beside the Panopticon. 

Melanie struggled, trying to pull them towards the Panopticon, but she was exhausted and weak with pain. As Basira pulled them closer to the rubble, Melanie realized it was the ruin of a small town, crumbled and decaying. 

“What the hell are we doing?” Melanie panted.

“We’re resting,” Basira said, “and I’m taking a look at your leg. Then, we’re going to come up with a plan."

They reached the edge of the town within the hour. It was surrounded by a low stone wall. Many of the buildings were gone, rotted away and leaving only stone foundations. Basira pulled them into one of the few remaining structures, a stone watchtower near the northeast corner. Melanie stretched her aching leg out on the ground, pressing her hand against her wound. Beside her, Basira rubbed a hand over her face and adjusted her scarf. She looked exhausted, devastated by Daisy’s transformation, and they sat in silence for some time.

Eventually, the air around them began to darken. Night and day were only subtly different in Mordor, but Melanie recognized the sign that, somewhere beyond the dark layer of clouds, the sun was setting. She watched as Basira lit a fire, then rummaged in her pack and pulled out a small bag.

“What are you doing?” Melanie asked.

Basira shrugged. “I told you,” said Basira. “I’m going to take a look at your leg.”

Basira beckoned for Melanie to pull down her trousers. She did so, and Basira doused a cloth in water from her waterskin. Melanie hissed in pain as Basira began methodically cleaning her wound. Her touch was firm but gentle. Her hands were warm.

“I’m sorry,” said Melanie. “I’m sorry about Daisy.”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Basira snapped. Her voice was hoarse. She handed the cloth to Melanie. “Apply pressure. You need stitches.”

Melanie did as she was told. Basira rummaged in her pack once more, face turned away from Melanie. Melanie suspected she was crying and averted her eyes, trying to give Basira room to grieve.

Thinking of grief made Melanie think of Georgie. When Basira began stitching Melanie’s wound, Melanie closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the pain. She imagined that Basira’s fingers belonged to Georgie instead, that Georgie was caring for her, running a hand through her hair, telling her it would be all right. She leaned into the imagined touch, wringing comfort from it like the last drops of water from a waterskin. It helped, but not enough.

When Basira was finished, she bandaged Melanie’s leg and curled up on the ground. They had abandoned their bedrolls with Daisy, so Basira pulled her cloak around herself. “You can take watch,” she muttered, and Melanie nodded.

Darkness fell. Melanie ached to see the stars. The endless clouds of Mordor felt like a ceiling pressing down, coming to bury them all alive. Despite the claustrophobia, Melanie felt like she could really breathe for the first time in months; the well of anger that had built itself in her chest had finally run dry, leaving room for something like grief. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, exactly, but it was a human one. Melanie wasn’t sure if she should feel grateful or betrayed.

Before she could sort out her feelings, Melanie noticed the mist. It snaked between buildings, tinged a faint, glowing green. Melanie set a hand on the hilt of her sword and made to wake Basira when, suddenly, the mist began to coalesce.

It gathered itself in the shape of a man—tall, lean, robed with fine fabrics and with a crown resting on his skull. And it was a skull, Melanie realized, though some flesh still clung to that smooth white bone. The man was joined by another, this one dressed in battlefield armor, and then another, until the whole town was full of soldiers, each composed of the same insubstantial mist.

Without realizing it, Melanie stood. She walked out of the building entranced, one hand still resting on the hilt of her sword. As soon as she stepped into the open air, the king turned to face her. His expression was one of permanent fury, of that sweet and simple desire to kill. Melanie knew it well.

“You’re of the Slaughter,” she said.

The king inclined his head toward her. “As are you.”

Melanie shook her head. “Not anymore.”

“It no longer controls you. It has still left its mark.” The king pointed at the bloody spot on Melanie’s trousers. “The Piper’s blood ran through your veins before you ever bore that wound. It is your legacy.”

“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “There was a battle. You followed the Piper there.”

“We did,” said the king. “It was an unwinnable battle. We were fools to fight it.”

“You died,” she said. “All ten thousand of you. The Slaughter betrayed you.”

“But you can command us,” said the king.

Melanie paused. “I can,” she agreed.

“You fought the Slaughter. You journeyed with the one who wishes to destroy the Crown. We have seen this, Melanie King, King of Ghosts, King of Gondor. We have seen this, and we wish to help you. We wish to be free.”

Melanie sighed. “Guess I can’t fault you for that,” she said. She glanced back at the stone tower where Basira slept. The night breeze swept across the dirt, stirring dust into the air. Melanie allowed herself one moment of grief for the future she might have had, had she been free of this duty; for the life of peace she feared she would never know.

“All right,” she said. “Follow me.”

  


* * *

  


“Martin!” Jon cried.

The Lonely’s fog was thick, and it enveloped Jon with a sickening comfort. _Wouldn’t it be nice,_ it whispered, _to leave the world behind? To finally rest, after so long a journey? To let the fear fade away?_

“Martin!” Jon cried again. He felt for Martin’s presence. His trail was faint but recent, and Jon followed it, clinging to his love for Martin like it was all he had left. He supposed it was, in some sad way, apart from the Crown, which grew heavier around his neck with every step.

_Just slip it on,_ the Lonely whispered. _You’ll be able to see clearly with it on. Just wear the Crown, and this can all be over._

“No,” Jon muttered. “No, I won’t. Not here. Martin wouldn’t want that.”

_Martin won’t have the chance to care if you can’t find him,_ something whispered, though Jon was no longer sure if it was the Lonely, the Crown, or his own mind. _He’ll be gone forever, and you’ll be all alone. Who will be left to love you? You’re alone, and it’s all your fault._

In the distance, Jon thought he could see a huddled figure in the fog. He ran toward it, crying “Martin, wait!” all the way.

_Martin’s gone,_ the voice whispered.

“No,” said Jon. “No, he _isn't_.”

The figure turned, but it was so lifeless, so far from the Martin that he knew, that for a moment, Jon did not recognize him.

“Hello, Jon,” he said, his voice echoing and flat.

“Martin,” Jon breathed. “I’m here. I came here for you. I’m going to get you out.”

“I don’t want to get out,” said Martin. His eyes were unfocused, and his hair was streaked with white. When Jon reached for his hand, it was cold to the touch. “It’s nice.”

“Martin, _please,_ ” said Jon.

“I always loved you, you know,” said Martin.

Jon stared in horror as Martin’s hand faded from his grasp. He reached for Martin, but the space in front of him was empty of all but fog. “Martin!”

“It really is a shame,” said a voice to Jon’s left. “I’d expected more of him. But then, he _has_ served the Lonely well.”

Jon turned. The man standing before him was old, wearing a captain’s uniform. His smile was blank and uninviting. “Hello,” he said, inclining his head toward Jon. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I don’t think you feel the same.”

“ _Where is Martin?_ ” Jon snarled.

The man shrugged. “That’s not really a relevant question,” he said. “There’s not much of a ‘where,’ here.”

“ _Give him back to me._ ”

“Oh, Jon,” said the man. “I really can’t. Not anymore, anyway. Martin has given himself to the Lonely, and I’m not foolish enough to deny it a meal. Are you? And in any case, are you sure Martin wants to go back with you? You don’t exactly have the best track record keeping your friends alive, do you?”

“Martin!” Jon cried. The fog swirled around him, enclosing him more and more tightly. He could almost feel its tendrils piercing his heart, freezing it where it sat within his chest.

“Why take him from this place?” the man asked. “It’s peaceful here. Can you say the same of Middle Earth?”

“I…” said Jon. He glanced around at the fog, at the horrible lack of other figures within it. He realized, with sudden and absolute clarity, that he was alone.

“And you don’t have the best track record when it comes to keeping your friends safe,” said the man. “Tell me, who is left of your little fellowship? Out of all the people who left Rivendell, how many are still alive?”

Jon felt the fog dig its way deeper into his heart. He turned back to the spot where Martin had stood. “I am,” he said. “Sasha’s dead. Tim’s dead. Daisy and Melanie and Basira are… probably dead. The Shire is far, far behind me.”

“Martin’s _safe_ here,” said the man. “You know he wasn’t made to survive out there. He deserves to rest, and so do you.”

Jon sighed. “Maybe you’re right,” he said quietly.

“Of course I am,” said the man. “Now, if you’ll just—”

“Or maybe,” said Jon, fixing the man in his gaze, “it’s time for you to be quiet and _answer my questions, Peter Lukas._ ”

Peter Lukas froze. Jon stared into him with all the power of the Eye, drinking in every moment of Loneliness Peter had felt in all his life. He Saw Peter’s manipulation of Martin, Saw how Martin had resisted his plan, in the end, Saw a man who was so small, so powerless, in the face of something as large and incomprehensible as true Fear.

“ _Peter Lukas,_ ” he said. “ _Tell me where Martin is._ ”

Peter clutched at his throat. “No!” he gasped, his eyes wide.

“Tell me,” Jon growled, “or I will _rip it out of you._ ”

“I _won’t!_ ” Peter gasped.

So Jon Looked. He Looked, and he Saw the path to Martin laid out at his feet, and then he turned the terrible knowledge of Martin’s suffering on Peter. He felt the fear of every single person wandering the Lonely, and he turned it all on Peter, who clutched at his own skin like it burned.

“Please!” he gasped.

But it was too late. The Eye had him now, and there was nowhere left to turn. Peter Lukas died screaming, obliterated completely, and the Lonely’s fog filled the space he had left. When Jon came back to his body, there was nothing left but mist.

“Martin,” he breathed. “ _Martin!_ ”

He followed the path through the mist. At its end, Martin sat, face and eyes downturned. Jon knelt in front of him and cupped Martin’s face in his hands. Martin’s skin was cold as ice, and he barely reacted to Jon’s presence.

“Martin, he’s gone,” he said desperately. “It’s over. We can leave. Martin, can you hear me?”

“You’re not real,” said Martin. “There’s no one left who loves me.”

“Of course there is,” said Jon. “Come on, Martin. I’ve come to take you home.”

“Home?” Martin asked.

“Home,” said Jon. “Home, Martin. Do you remember the Shire? Do you remember spring, and all the flowers? The orchards in blossom? The birds, nesting in the hazel thicket? Do you remember the taste of strawberries?”

Martin shook his head, but now there were tears in his eyes. Jon held him tighter. “No, Jon,” he said. “I can’t recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass. There’s just mist, and fog, and Loneliness. But it’s all right, Jon. The fear is gentle here.”

“Martin, _look at me,_ ” said Jon, tilting Martin’s face up. He met Martin’s eyes with that final, desperate hope of the dying, praying that his voice could still reach Martin’s mind. “ _Look at me, and tell me what you see._ ”

Martin’s eyes were dull when they met Jon’s, but Jon watched as they grew sharper, searching his eyes, though for what, Jon couldn’t be sure. His tears spilled over his cheeks, and Jon watched as Martin’s face filled with color and expression once again, as he realized who was sitting in front of him.

“Jon,” he breathed.

Jon threw his arms around Martin’s shoulders and held him close. Martin held him just as tightly, his hands balled in the fabric of Jon’s shirt.

“I was on my own,” he said into Jon’s shoulder. “I was all on my own.”

“Not anymore,” Jon muttered. He kissed Martin’s temple, then kissed it again, relishing in the renewed warmth beneath Martin’s skin, in the softness of his curls. They sat like that for some time, though Jon could not have said how long. After a while, though, when the fog began to creep forward once more, Jon pulled himself and Martin to their feet.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

“How?” Martin asked, still unsteady on his feet.

Jon wrapped an arm around his waist. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know the way.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Blood, injury, weapons, combat, mind control, suicide

When they emerged, the Panopticon was empty. Jon gripped his sword tight, ready for battle, but there was nothing there to fight.

“Where’s Elias?” Martin asked. He was stumbling over his own feet, but then, so was Jon, still exhausted by the effort of killing Peter. It had filled him with a sort of nervous energy, as though he’d smoked too much pipe weed and it had left his fingers trembling. He glanced suspiciously at the body sitting in its throne and kept tight hold of Martin’s hand.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We should go while we can. We need to destroy the Crown before he comes back.”

They hurried across the room and down the many stairs of that horrible tower. The Crown was heavier than it ever had been before, pulling Jon down and down and down. When he and Martin finally stepped into the light of day, it was nearly blinding, though just as many clouds covered the sky as always.

“Where do we go?” Martin asked.

Jon pulled Martin along beside him as he began to make his way south. Hill Top rose out of the ground beside the tower, even taller and more intimidating in the landscape, and the air grew so hot and thick that each breath was painful. They stumbled up the rocks as quickly as they could, desperate to get out of sight of the Eye.

Though, Jon realized, it hardly mattered. The Eye was preoccupied, staring at a little pile of rock to the tower’s north. He quietly thanked whatever had distracted it and kept moving.

He stumbled first after they had been walking for only a short while. There was something wrong about this place, though Jon would have been hard-pressed to name it. The air shimmered with heat and power, but it was a power that very desperately did not want Jon to come near it. The sheer force of its hatred for him knocked him back, and Martin caught him, looking frightened.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Jon nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. We need to keep moving.”

Martin frowned, but he allowed Jon to get to his feet. They kept climbing, even as the air grew more and more toxic.

Jon stumbled again almost an hour later. They had made a lot of progress, but the Crown was still heavy around Jon’s neck, and the ground was coated in a fine and slippery layer of ash. This time, Martin did not catch him, and Jon fell heavy as a stone, rolling for a way before finally coming to a stop.

Martin rushed to his side. Jon barely noticed, sick as he was from the air around him. He knew, with a horrible certainty, that the Eye did not want him anywhere near this place. He knew, just as horribly, that resisting it was killing him, and that he had no choice.

“Jon!” Martin shouted. Jon realized Martin had been calling his name for at least a minute, but he had hardly noticed. He stared at Martin’s frightened face and made a decision.

“We need to rest,” he said. “There’s something wrong about this place, Martin. I can’t— I don’t—”

“Okay,” said Martin. “Okay. Let’s just find a safe place.”

There wasn’t anywhere safe anymore, but Jon didn’t say that. He simply allowed Martin to help him to his feet, to hook an arm around his waist, and to support him in his walking until they’d found a bit of rock behind which they could hide from the Eye.

“I’m sorry,” said Jon when they were settled. “You were trapped in that place, and I haven’t even— I didn’t even—”

“Shh, Jon,” said Martin. He grabbed Jon’s waterskin from his pack and handed it to him. Jon took it with trembling hands. “You saved me. That’s enough.”

Jon sipped at the warm water. “No,” he said. “It isn’t. I left you, Martin, and I’m so, so sorry.”

Martin sighed. “You didn’t mean to, Jon. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry,” he whispered. He grabbed Martin’s hand and held it tightly in his own.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you when you reached out,” said Martin. “I didn’t trust Peter, but I also thought I could distract him from you, I guess, or keep you safe by working with him, or work out another way to help once I’d given back the Crown. I didn’t mean to just… just abandon you like that, all alone in that cave with that horrible spidery thing, or—”

“No, Martin, it’s all right,” said Jon. “You couldn’t have known. There’s no way you could have known.”

Martin nodded, and for the second time that day, tears spilled over his cheeks. He wiped them away sheepishly, smearing dirt over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to keep crying like this.”

Jon shook his head and, before he could lose his nerve, leaned over and kissed Martin on the cheek. “Don’t apologize,” he muttered. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Martin glanced up at him, his eyes filled with tears and hope. They darted down to glance at Jon’s lips for a moment before coming back to meet his gaze. Jon’s heart felt full of so much love that he could hardly contain it, so he leaned forward and, so softly and so hesitantly, pressed his lips to Martin’s.

Martin let out a small noise of surprise. He moved against Jon, tilting his head so that their noses were less squashed, and brought his hand up to hold Jon’s arm with so much care that Jon wanted to cry. Jon pushed forward, emboldened by Martin’s response, and then he was wrapped in Martin’s embrace, kissing him at the end of the earth.

When Jon pulled away, he laughed a bit. So did Martin, tears spilling down his cheeks once more. Jon wiped them away with a gentle hand.

“I’m glad to be with you, Martin Blackwood,” he said. “Here, at the end of all things.”

Martin shook his head, his smile falling. “Don’t say that,” he said. “This isn’t the end. Not really. We’ll be home soon. You’ll see.”

Jon fought to keep his smile on his face. “I love you,” he said. “Oh, god, Martin, I think I’ve been a complete idiot.”

“Yeah, a bit,” said Martin. His smile returned in full force. “But that’s all right.”

Jon kissed him again, and again, still wrapped in Martin’s embrace. They rested for an hour, and sat, and talked about home, about all the things they missed. It was warm and familiar, even in such unfamiliar surroundings. Jon savored every one of Martin’s smiles, the softness of his sweater, the lilt of his voice, the strength of his hands as they held Jon close. For his part, Jon held Martin with every bit of tenderness he could, trying to express even half the strength of his feelings with every touch. From Martin’s expressions, it seemed to be working.

Eventually, though, they could put off their journey no longer. Martin helped Jon to his feet. He held onto Martin tightly, shaking with the effort of each step. It became clear very quickly that Jon would not be able to continue for much longer.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He waved his hand vaguely at his chest. “It’s just… so heavy.”

“I wish I could carry it for you,” said Martin. “Lighten the load.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t think it would let you, at this point. And anyway, I don’t want you to feel this. It’s horrible.”

Martin frowned, then nodded. “Right. Well. Maybe I can’t carry it _for_ you, but I _can_ carry you.”

“What?” Jon asked, alarmed.

Without warning, Martin scooped him up into his arms. He held Jon bridal-style, taking care not to jostle him too much. Jon yelped and threw his arms around Martin’s neck.

“Martin!” he shouted. “What—”

“Which way?” Martin asked.

“Aren’t you going to get tired?” Jon asked.

Martin snorted. “You weigh about as much as a cat,” he said. “I think I’ll be all right. Now, come on. Which way am I taking you?”

Jon pointed in the direction of the summit. “We’re going to the top,” he said. “To destroy the Crown, once and for all.”

“Let’s do it,” said Martin. “I’m tired of this _fucking_ walk.”

Martin set off with Jon in his arms. Jon held on tightly, grateful not to have to walk. The Crown burned against his chest, and he tried desperately to ignore the voice in his mind that begged him to put it on.

The air grew hotter and thicker. Soon, it took everything in Jon just to stay awake and alert. Martin’s heartbeat was a comforting rhythm against his ear, and in Martin’s arms, Jon felt safer than he had in a year. He found himself slipping in and out of consciousness and struggled against the pull of the dark.

“Stay with me, Jon,” Martin gasped. “We’re almost there.”

Jon didn’t know how long the journey to the summit was. He only realized they had reached it when Martin moved to set him down, looking almost apologetic.

“I have to open the door,” he explained. When Jon frowned, Martin gestured in front of him.

They were standing in front of a small house. Its door was painted white, with an intricate circular stained glass window in its center. The window was full of all different colors of glass, separated by thin black strands that formed a perfect spiderweb pattern.

“Hill Top,” said Jon, only half inside his body. “We’re here.”

“Is it safe?” Martin asked.

“No,” Jon replied. “But then, nowhere is.”

Martin nodded. He gestured for Jon to pull out his sword, but Jon shook his head.

“It’s not that kind of danger,” he said. “Swords are useless here. Besides, I’m not sure I could lift it.”

“I haven’t got my sword,” said Martin. “It must still be in the Lonely. Yours is the only defense we have.”

“It isn’t a defense,” said Jon. “Only the illusion of defense.”

Martin sighed, but nodded. “If you say so.”

“Martin,” said Jon, “if you want to leave now, I won’t stop you.”

Martin stared at him for a moment, then laughed. He took a step forward and kissed the top of Jon’s head.

“Of course I’m not leaving,” he said. “I made a promise to stay with you, or have you forgotten? I broke it once. I’m never breaking it again.”

Jon stared at him. He grabbed the sleeve of Martin’s sweater in one hand. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” said Martin. “Now, let’s destroy this thing and go home.”

And with that, he opened the door.

  


* * *

  


Melanie and Basira stood before an army of 10,000 monsters with nothing more than the weapons at their hips.

That morning, the sun had risen on the same barren landscape they had seen for months. They hadn’t eaten, as they had no more food. They had wrung the last drops of water from their waterskins and wiped the blood from their skin. Then they had set off for the Panopticon, which, at some point in the night, had been surrounded by avatars of the Fears.

“This is crazy,” said Basira. “We’re going to die.”

“I told you the plan,” said Melanie. “You’re the one who wanted a plan.”

“Pardon me for thinking the plan would be rational,” said Basira.

“There wasn’t going to be any sneaking up on the Eye,” said Melanie. “It’s the personification of the fear of being watched, and there’s a big fuck-off Eye sitting on top of this tower. I don’t think stealth was ever really an option.”

“Oh, but fighting an army of monsters with the two of us and your new ghost friends _is?_ ”

Melanie shrugged, unsheathing her sword. She shifted her weight to her uninjured leg. “Not like we’ve got time to come up with something better.”

Basira groaned, but she nocked an arrow anyway. “Remind me to kill you when this is over.”

“Sure thing,” said Melanie with a wicked grin.

The monstrous army had surrounded the tower and the town. Melanie wasn’t sure how, exactly, Mordor’s forces had known to gather, but she supposed it didn’t really matter. They stood between her and Jonah Magnus, and that was all that mattered. From somewhere within their ranks, a horn blew.

“Nice knowing you,” said Basira.

“And you,” said Melanie.

She wasn’t sure who, exactly, had moved first. She only knew that she was moving, running into the fray with all a new sort of anger burning in her veins. It wasn’t the Slaughter; this was something from deep inside her, a bone-deep exhaustion at the state of the world that she had pressed down until it was hot as a thousand suns. This was not the desire to kill; this was the desire to protect, to repair, to make things right.

At her side, Basira loosed arrow after arrow into the crowd. They were quickly surrounded by monsters, but also by that faint green mist. Melanie laughed when the first ghostly sword pierced the ribs of a nearby Hunter.

“Finally!” she shouted. “Let’s kill this bastard!”

The battle was intense, but Melanie’s anger propelled her through it. She whirled past swords and knives and claws, dodging each as though it was a miracle. She lost sight of Basira for a long while, but when they found each other again, Basira was fighting with a wild wolf by her side.

“ _Daisy!?_ ” Melanie shouted.

The wolf snarled and snapped a monster in half between her teeth.

Before long, Helen and Michael had joined them, randomly opening doors and trapping monsters within. Melanie narrowly avoided a club to the head and was rewarded with Helen’s wicked grin as she pierced the monster’s eyes with her long, sharp fingers.

“How rude,” she said, before glancing back at Melanie. “I’ve brought backup. The Slaughter’s all well and good, but there’s nothing quite like the End.”  
Melanie frowned, but soon found herself dueling a swarm of gnats commanded by an avatar of the Corruption. She had no time to question Helen’s words before she was embroiled in battle once more.

Once the gnats had been disposed of, there were Flesh monsters, Strangers, beings of fire and Desolation. Melanie fought them all, swinging her sword until her arms were numb. She did not tire, fueled as she was adrenaline and fear, but when she felt solid warmth against her back, it filled her with an energy she did not know she was lacking. She turned to see the most beautiful person she had ever seen firing arrow after arrow into the crowd.

“Georgie!”

Georgie grinned. “Hey, babe,” she said. “Helen said you might need help. She opened a door for the rest of us.”

“Good old Helen,” said Melanie. “I’d missed you.”

“Missed you, too,” said Georgie. “Listen, we’ll get you an opening to the tower, but then you need to get inside and kill Magnus.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Melanie shouted. Another Flesh monster descended upon her, but one of the Slaughter’s ghosts slashed it to pieces before it could reach her.

“We’re fine!” Georgie shouted. “I’m not the only one who’s come through, and you’ve got your whole ghost army—which is awesome, by the way—so you’re free to go kill him.”

“Are you sure?” Melanie shouted.

Georgie let loose another arrow. “Babe, honestly, you’re wasting time asking,” she said. “Go! Good luck, and I love you.”

Melanie took a precious second to pull Georgie close and kiss her. Then, she pulled away and began to run toward the base of the tower.

  


* * *

  


The house at Hill Top was small, with only one room on the inside. Martin and Jon made their way in, carefully watching for any traps, but the house seemed entirely ordinary (aside from its location at the top of a mountain).

“I don’t understand,” said Martin when they were inside. “How are we supposed to destroy it?”

Jon took an unsteady step forward, then another. “The Eye doesn’t want me to know,” he said, “which means we need to find what the Eye doesn’t want me to see.” He glanced at everything in the room, then down at the ground. His head began to ache when he looked down, making it difficult to focus. “I think…” he said, then nodded. “Yes. We need to go down.”

“Down where?” Martin asked.

It felt as though Jon’s head was stuffed with cotton. “I, um,” he mumbled. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Is there a hidden door? Like a hatch? To go down?”

Martin frowned, then began to inspect the floor. Jon closed his eyes and focused on breathing, trying to quiet the horrible sense of wrongness that threatened to overtake him.

“Here!” Martin cried suddenly. Jon heard the creak of a door opening and opened his eyes.

Martin had found a hidden hatch in the center of the room. Jon made his way over to Martin carefully. When he was beside the hatch, he clutched Martin for balance before gazing down into its depths. There was a stone staircase leading down, and the room below glowed a faint orange.

“Down there?” Martin asked.

Jon nodded. “I… I think so?”

Martin helped him slowly descend the stairs, keeping him from stumbling. The air grew somehow hotter, and as he reached the bottom of the staircase, Jon realized why.

They were standing in an old stone cave. The stone on which they stood was a small stone overhang, below which was a long, terrifying drop. At its bottom was a slow-moving river of lava, smelling strongly of sulfur. Jon clutched Martin even tighter.

“That’s how we destroy it,” said Martin, and Jon’s headache began to feel more like being stabbed repeatedly in the face. “We drop it into the fire.”

“Yes,” said a voice. “Into the fiery chasm from whence it came.”

Martin stared at Jon for a moment. “Um, yeah?” he said. “Is this where it was made?”

Jon shrugged, but the voice continued. “Oh, yes,” it said. “This is where it was forged, centuries ago, and this is where it can be destroyed, though I don’t see why anyone would do something so foolish.”

Martin frowned. “Jon,” he said, “you’re scaring me.”

Jon tried to say something to comfort him, to ask what was wrong, but instead, more words spilled from his mouth. “Oh, Martin,” he said. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t _Jon._ Not anymore.”

“What?” Martin asked, and then Jon was moving.

He ducked under Martin’s arm and drew his sword from its sheath. Jon watched, horrified, as his body lunged at Martin, swinging his sword at Martin’s throat. Martin jumped back with a yelp.

“Martin, I don’t—” said Jon, but then the voice was back.

“So sorry to alarm you both,” it said, and then Jon recognized it.

_Elias,_ he thought.

“I’ll only be a minute,” said Elias through Jon’s lips. He lifted Jon’s hand to his chest and reached for the Crown. Jon resisted, his hands shaking with the effort, but the heat and the air and the Eye had left him weak, and no matter how hard he fought, his hands kept moving.

“No!” Martin cried, and then Jon pulled the Crown off its chain.

It grew in his hands, transforming from something that would fit around his finger to a large circlet of gold. Elias laughed from Jon’s mouth as Jon raised it to his forehead, his cackle echoing through the cavern.

“ _You who watch and know and understand none,_ ” he said. “ _You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right._ ”

“Stop that!” Martin cried. He lunged forward, grabbing for Jon’s sword, but Jon stepped back, Elias’s grin stretching his mouth into something twisted and inhuman.

“ _Come to us in your wholeness,_ ” he cried. “ _Come to us in your perfection._ ”

“Jon, please!” Martin cried. He was crying again, and Jon’s chest ached. He clutched his throat, scratching at his lips his jaw, his neck, desperate to make the voice stop, but it just laughed. Jon took another pained step back.

The voice crawled out of him, even as blood began to run down his chin. “ _Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and dies!_ ”

Martin stumbled forward, and Jon took another step back, his sword outstretched in front of him.

“ _Come to us,_ ” said the voice, and suddenly, Jon realized what he had to do.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to squeak. Martin’s eyes widened with panic.

“Jon,” he said. “Please.”

Jon took a step back.

“ _I—_ ” said the voice.

“Jon, don’t!”

“ _OPEN—_ ” said the voice.

“I love you,” Jon mouthed, though he could not summon the voice to say it.

“Jon,” Martin sobbed.

Jon felt the edge of the rock on his heels. He took a deep breath, then took another step back.

“ _THE—!_ ” said the voice.

And then, Jon fell.

  


* * *

  


Georgie had been right—the path to the Panopticon was sparse, though Melanie still found herself doing battle against several more monsters before she reached it. When she did, the large iron door was shut tight. It took all of Melanie’s strength to open it, and when it did open, it did so with a loud groan. Melanie slipped inside and pulled it shut behind her, praying nothing tried to follow.

She sprinted up the spiral staircase, taking the stairs two at a time. Below, the sounds of battle echoed; above was only silence, and the desperate need to end this before it was too late.

The stairs opened into a large room, but Melanie paid no attention to it. All she saw was the throne at its center, and in it, the near-corpse of an old man.

She made her way to it with caution, pulling an old knife from its sheath at her waist. The man’s eyes were the only thing moving, the only thing with any life left in them. Melanie held her knife above them and grimaced.

“Fuck you, you old bastard,” she said.

She drove her knife into his right eye and twisted. As she did so, the man’s skeletal hands wrapped around her wrist, and pain exploded in her eye. She realized, with horror, that she could not see from her right eye, and that blood was dripping down her face.

“ _ARGH!_ ” she screamed, pulling away from the man, but his grip was firm.

“What will you do?” he asked, in a voice that seemed far too young and smooth for something that had been dead two hundred years. “Blind me, and you blind yourself. The Eye does not appreciate the loss of its heart. It will take from you, instead.”

Melanie ripped her knife from his eye and spat blood at his feet. “I am Melanie King,” she said. “Descendant of the Piper, heir of Gondor, and the last human free from your bullshit.” She raised the knife again and leaned in close, teeth gritted. “The Slaughter couldn’t keep me. You think the Eye can? _We are not yours._ ”

She screamed and drove her knife into his left eye. The corpse screamed, its cry echoing throughout the tower, and Melanie screamed alongside it. She stumbled back from the body with blood streaming down her face, newly blind and suddenly abandoned by all the energy that she had felt while fighting. Her leg ached, though it was nothing compared to the explosion of pain in her eye sockets. She clutched at her face, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood.

The floor shook, and Melanie fell to the ground. The tower was collapsing, she realized, and she didn’t know which way to go to get out. The tower shuddered again, and Melanie clutched at the stone.

“Help,” she whispered, and then, “Help! Helen!”

The tower shook, and gave a loud groan. Melanie tried to get back to her feet, but without her vision, her balance was shot, and the tower kept moving beneath her. “Helen!” she cried again. “Georgie! Basira! Someone, please!”

Melanie began to crawl in the direction she thought was right. When she came to a place where the rock vanished beneath her fingers, she felt for a step, only to realize that it gave way only to empty air. She backed away from the hole with shock, fear filling her heart.

_I’m going to die,_ she thought. _Oh, my god, I’m going to die._

She was seized with the horrible terror that came with her own imminent death, and she screamed once again, pleading with the universe for someone, something, anything to save her. Magnus was dead, and it was what he deserved, but she wanted to live, if only to see a world that was no longer under his thumb.

“Please!” she cried. “ _Please, someone he—_ ”

Then, with a mighty crash, the tower fell, and the Eye closed.

  


* * *

  


Several things happened at once.

There was a great rush of air, like the world was tearing itself at the seams. Jon fell, grasping instinctively for the rocks above, and managed to catch himself on a small ledge, though his legs dangled dangerously above the lava below. At the same time, he screamed, feeling the Crown fall from his head.

It fell as though in slow-motion. Jon stared, exhausted, as it hit the ground below. The voice in his head shouted and he reached for it, letting go of the rock with one hand. The Crown fell into the fire, and Jon watched as it was consumed, the voice within him still screaming.

Then, there was a horrible burst of pain behind Jon’s eyes. The voice fell silent instantly, as did the great rushing of the world coming apart. For the first time in a year, Jon felt as though he was free.

He didn’t have long to savor the feeling, though. The rock below his hand was slick with his own blood, and he was slipping, his arms burning with the effort he needed to hold on. He couldn’t even scream for help, as torn and broken as his voice was. He could only watch, horrified, as his fingers gave out.

And then, wonderfully, Martin reached out his hand.

“Jon!” he cried. “Grab on!”

Jon reached his dangling hand up toward Martin. Martin grabbed it, but it slipped, slick as it was with sweat and blood. Jon panted, his grip on the rock growing looser.

“Don’t you dare let go,” Martin cried. “Reach!”

Jon did, and this time, Martin’s grip was true. He held Jon firm, and when Jon reached his other hand up, feet scrabbling against the rock, Martin held his full weight. He pulled Jon over the edge with all his strength, and Jon, when he finally managed to haul himself over the side, collapsed.

“Martin,” he whispered, his voice still nearly destroyed by the screaming.

The air around them was growing hotter and brighter by the second. Jon stared down in horror as the lava rose, slowly but surely gaining ground.

Martin grabbed Jon and pulled him back towards the stairs. Without the weight of the Crown, Jon was able to move, but he was exhausted and sick from his body’s betrayal. He stumbled on each step and as they burst out of the house. Martin kept pulling him along, desperately trying to avoid the heat as the mountain began to erupt.

Lava spilled out of the ground in several places. Martin pulled Jon forward, propelling him down the side of the mountain at a breakneck pace. Jon followed, but he knew in his heart that it was too late; their task was over, but they would not survive it.

Martin pulled them out onto a small shelf of rock just before a stream of lava caught up to them. He pushed Jon up to its edge, shielding him from the heat. Jon curled into Martin’s body and stayed there, holding on for dear life. There was nothing real left in the world aside from Martin’s scent, his heat, the feeling of cloth against Jon’s fingers as he held on, the feeling of Martin’s hands curled around his back. They held each other there in silence, Martin stroking up and down the length of Jon’s shirt, as the world came undone.

“I love you,” Jon whispered. “I’m glad to be with you.”

Martin shook his head. “We’re going to get out of this,” he said. “I’m going to get you _home._ You deserve to go home, Jonathan Sims. Don’t you dare give up before then.”

Jon raised his head and nuzzled his nose into the space where Martin’s neck met his shoulder. “Home,” he whispered. “We’re going home.”

“That’s right,” said Martin. “And it’ll be green. I remember it now, Jon. I remember the Shire, and the books down in the Archives, and the green of the grass, the smell of flowers, the taste of strawberries. I remember the breeze on a hot day. I remember the way it feels to step into a cool stream, to drink cold water, to drink hot tea on a cold night. I remember the feeling of a soft blanket and a soft mattress.”

“I wish I could have shared one with you,” Jon croaked. “Martin—”

“Shh,” Martin said. He stroked a hand through Jon’s hair. “You will,” he promised. “We will. We’ll have a little cottage with a garden out front, and you can sit in the window seat and read, or sit outside with me and read aloud while I do the watering. We’ll visit Gerry with scones, and we’ll go to the Green Dragon and drink ale, and we’ll fall asleep holding hands, and— and—”

Jon shook his head and kissed Martin, slow and sweet and sad. “I love you,” he whispered again when they broke apart. “I’ll never stop saying it, Martin. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Jon,” said Martin, his voice breaking. “I’ll never stop. For all the rest of my days, for every heartbeat I have left, I’ll love you.”

Something groaned beneath them. Jon held Martin’s face in his hands like it was the most precious thing in the world. Martin held him close, even as the heat grew unbearable and they both began to lose consciousness.

“I love you,” Jon croaked. “I love you. I love you.”

When the world went dark, it was to the rhythm of their shared confessions, their love echoing its final refrain into the night.


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!

Jon awoke in a clean bed, to a clean room, empty but for him.

He groaned as he sat up, which set his throat aching. There was a pitcher of water and an empty glass beside the bed. Jon filled the glass with shaking hands and drank. It was cool and clean, and Jon gulped it down, unused to water so pure and tasteless. He nearly choked on it, and each cough drew more pain in his throat, which made him cough even more. Soon, he was clutching at his throat, unable to draw a full breath without pain.

Someone dashed into the room and lifted his arms above his head, saying, “Breathe, Jon. Just breathe. In, and out.”

Jon did, following the person’s instructions until he was a bit less lightheaded. When he finally came back to awareness, he realized who it was.

“Daisy,” he mouthed, but no sound came out. He tried to ask another question, but his voice was weak, and he nearly began coughing again.

Daisy shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. “Stop trying to talk.”

Jon shook his head, confused.

“Something happened when the volcano erupted. All the monsters we were fighting, all the weird effects, it all just vanished. The sun came out, and everything was all right. The others are all right, too. Basira’s with Melanie. Melanie killed Magnus, but it left her blind. You’ll see. Luckily, Helen got her out.”

Jon frowned.

“What?” Daisy asked. 

Jon mouthed the word ‘Helen.’

“Is Helen still Distorted?” Daisy asked. When Jon nodded, she shook her head. “I think opening that door was the last thing she did before her power faded. She pulled all of us back here, to Gondor. Michael did the same for you and Martin. You nearly died, Jon.”

Jon clutched at the blankets. “Martin?” he breathed.

Daisy’s face darkened. Jon’s heart sank, but then Daisy grabbed his arm.

“He’s alive, Jon,” she said. “He just… He hasn’t been well, since you came back. He woke up a few days ago, when we weren’t sure if you were going to make it. He didn’t take the news well. I can bring him, if you like.”

Jon shook his head and made to stand.

“Jon,” Daisy sighed, exasperated. She gestured for him to sit, but Jon ignored her, standing unsteadily beside the bed.

“Martin,” he whispered again, though it tore at his throat to do so.

Daisy rolled her eyes, but she hopped off the bed and held out an arm. “Fine. Don’t tell Georgie,” she said. “She’d kill me if she knew you were up.”

Jon made a gesture as though to seal his mouth shut. Daisy poked him in the arm. “All right, smartarse.”

They made their way out of the room and into the hall. There was rubble along its edges, but it had been swept neatly out of the center of their path. Daisy led Jon out into a courtyard, where the extent of Gondor’s destruction became much more apparent.

Jon had never been in Gondor before, but he could tell it had been beautiful. Now, it was full of half-destroyed buildings, and its great courtyard had been dug up in many places to make a mass grave. In its center, though, the white tree of Gondor still stood, and Jon could see that it was covered in small buds, likely only a few short days from blooming.

Martin sat under the tree, staring out across the city at Mordor. The sky above it had cleared, leaving only a familiar mountain range surrounded by barren land. The sight of it still sent shivers down Jon’s spine, even without the Eye’s piercing glance. He tore his gaze away from it and back to Martin, to the way the breeze shifted his hair, the way he stared absently into the distance. For a horrible moment, Jon could have sworn he saw tendrils of fog wrapping their way around him.  
He moved forward as quickly as he could, fighting against his own exhaustion, against the many aches and wounds that tried to slow him. Every bit of his focus drove him forward, until, blessedly, he was setting a hand on Martin’s shoulder.

“Martin,” he whispered, and Martin startled so badly that Jon pulled his hand back in shock.

Martin stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, and then stood so suddenly that Jon almost jumped out of his skin. “Jon!” he cried, and pulled Jon into his arms. “Oh, my god. You’re alive.”

Jon wrapped his arms around Martin’s middle and rested his head on his chest. He nodded, and Martin’s arms tightened around him. Martin brought one hand up to rest in Jon’s hair, and Jon clung to him even tighter.

“I thought you were dying,” Martin babbled. “I thought you were going to die, and I was never going to see you again, and then what use would there be in going home, right, because all the world would be grey and lifeless, and there would be no more taste of strawberries, no more cool water, no more comfort, and I would just be stuck here without you, and, and, oh, Jon!”

Martin pulled away just far enough to kiss Jon’s forehead, then his temple, then his cheek, his jaw, and finally, his lips. Jon held him close, feeling all the weight of the moment, of the fact that they had both survived their journey and were here, together, so far from the end of all things.

Daisy cleared her throat. “Um,” she said, “not that this isn’t a touching reunion, but I _really_ don’t think Jon should be out of bed.”

Martin laughed, his eyes still fixed on Jon’s face. “How terrible of you,” he said, “not listening to doctor’s orders. Really, Jon, what will we do with you?”

Jon shrugged. When he didn’t respond, Martin’s smile fell slightly.

“Jon?” he asked. When Jon opened his mouth and closed it again, Martin looked to Daisy.

“His voice is just shot,” she explained. “It should be better in a week or so.”

“Oh,” said Martin. He glanced back at Jon, who shrugged again. “Okay.” He brought one hand up to stroke gently against the remaining bruises and scars on Jon’s neck, careful not to press against them. “I wasn’t sure if he’d done something to your voice, or…”

Jon frowned. Though the knowledge that the Eye had given him had faded, he still had a feeling that its effect on him would be more permanent than the collection of scars he’d gained. With a sudden certainty, he knew that he would never speak again, at least not with his old voice. The loss didn’t hurt as much as he would have expected it to; that voice had compelled and been compelled, and it had nearly ended the entire world. Its absence would take some getting used to, but Jon wasn’t entirely sure he minded.

Martin must have sensed something in Jon’s hesitation, but he said nothing, instead pressing one last kiss to Jon’s forehead and nodding back towards the castle. Jon allowed Martin to lead him inside, leaning heavily against Martin’s solid warmth as they walked. Martin accompanied him to his room and helped Jon back into bed. He turned to sit by Jon’s side, but Jon shook his head, gesturing for Martin to join him. Martin frowned.

“Are you sure, Jon?”

Jon nodded. He held the covers open and scooted over, making room for Martin to slide in. Martin blushed, but he slid his shoes off and crawled in, tucking himself against Jon’s side. Jon spent a moment ensuring that Martin was properly covered before wrapping an arm around him. Martin laid his head against Jon’s chest.

“I was so scared,” he said, his voice small.

Jon pressed another kiss to Martin’s temple.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Martin said.

Jon nodded and tapped Martin’s arm. _You, too._

Martin smiled. “So what now?” he asked. “We just… go home?”

Jon nodded.

“And…” Martin took a shaky breath. “And do all the things we talked about?”

Jon smiled and nodded again. He took Martin’s chin in his hand and tilted it until their eyes met, then nodded again, his smile going soft as Martin’s face lit up.

“Okay,” he said. “That sounds nice. I like it.”

Jon smiled and kissed him, so happy he could hardly contain it. They were alive, and Jonah Magnus was dead, and for the first time, the world could be at peace.

_  
_

* * *

_  
_

Three months after arriving in Gondor, Melanie stepped into her wedding dress.

The coronation wouldn’t happen for years, as Melanie refused to throw a lavish party before Gondor was rebuilt, but her wedding to Georgie would be a small, quiet affair. Basira helped her lace up the back, then handed Melanie her cane.

“Ready?” she asked.

Melanie shrugged. “How do I look?” she asked.

From behind her, Helen laughed. “You look beautiful,” she said. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Then I’m ready,” said Melanie. “Let’s go.”

Basira and Helen walked with her to one of the less-destroyed rooms in the castle. It was normally used for storage, but they had cleaned it out for the day, and Basira and Helen had spent a week decorating it. Basira led Melanie to its front and stood beside her, and there, they waited for Georgie to walk down the aisle.

She was accompanied by Oliver, and preceded by Jon and Martin, who had grown close with her over the months of Jon’s recovery. Martin offered a quiet “Congratulations” to her as he reached the aisle. Melanie assumed it was for both of them; she couldn’t see Jon’s signs, but she trusted Martin to pass along the message anyway.

As Georgie walked up the aisle, Helen leaned over and whispered, “Her gown is light green. It’s got long, flowing sleeves, and it’s made of something like silk, though it’s much lighter, almost like someone poured liquid silver over her body and it just stayed. Her hair is in lots of tiny braids, each woven with gold, and she’s wearing a golden circlet, which holds her veil in front of her face. She looks beautiful, Melanie.”

Melanie smiled. “I know,” she whispered. “She always does.”

Daisy performed the service. Melanie held Georgie’s hands in her own and knew, with all of her heart, that this was only the beginning of a beautiful and long life together. When Daisy said she could kiss the bride, Melanie dipped Georgie so low that their friends gasped. They kissed, and it felt like Melanie could breathe again, like the world had finally fallen back into its orbit.

The festivities lasted well into the night. Melanie, Daisy, and Basira had a drinking contest (which Basira won, surprisingly). Melanie danced with Helen and Georgie and Martin, and eventually Jon, who signed dirty jokes into her palm until she was snorting. The music played well into the night, and then she accompanied Georgie to their room, where they helped each other out of their wedding dresses and fell asleep in each other’s embrace, safe in the knowledge that the other was there with them. The sun rose and set, and the days went by, and they were safe and happy together in the kingdom they rebuilt.

All was peaceful in Gondor, and for that, they were grateful.

  


* * *

  


Six months after arriving in Gondor, Basira and Daisy travelled back to Lothlorien.

They settled in Basira’s old family home, where they made a living molding Dwarven metalwork with Elven magic to craft fine tools and intricate pieces of jewelry and armor. They were glad to return home after such a long and perilous journey, and to spend pleasant time in each other’s company.

All was peaceful in Lothlorien, and for that, they were grateful.

  


* * *

  


Almost two years after they had left it, Jon, Martin, Michael, and Helen arrived home.

The Shire was green and warm, and the grass beneath their feet was soft. Jon smiled as they came up over the hill and Hobbiton spread out beneath them. Home.

He and Martin made their way back home hand-in-hand, except when Jon needed both hands to sign. It was a combination of the sign language used in Gondor and signs that he and Martin had invented for their own needs, though he was sure he would spend the next few months re-learning from the Deaf community in Hobbiton. In the meantime, his cobbled-together signs were good enough to communicate with Martin, and that was good enough for him.

They made their way through the center of town. Folks stopped and stared as they passed, admiring their fine cloaks and silver swords. Jon clung closer to Martin as they walked, wishing there were fewer eyes on them; he hated being watched, even after all that time.

As they passed one farm, Jon heard a cry from in front of them: “They’re back!”

Jon looked, and it was old Eric Delano, shouting back towards his fields. From the field, Gerry looked up, his dark hair glinting in the midday sun. Jon watched as he held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and then, dropping his shovel beside him, he began to sprint toward the four of them. Jon raised a hand to ask Martin a question, but then Michael sped past the two of them, running until he and Gerry met. Gerry lifted him in an embrace, and the two of them kissed, so passionate and longing that Jon had to look away.

When he did, Martin was grinning. “Good for them,” he said.

Jon grinned as well. “About time,” he signed.

Helen laughed. “Guess it took an existential threat for him to sort his shit out,” she said. “Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have to tease him mercilessly.”

They followed her to where Gerry and Michael were embracing. Helen spent about ten minutes mocking Michael for his previous cowardice while Gerry embraced Martin and Jon and shouted at them for, as he put it, “scaring the shit out of the whole Shire for a year, you arseholes.” They stayed for a while, but Jon and Martin were both exhausted, so they soon said their goodbyes and made their way back to Jon’s home.

The door swung open with a creak. Inside, everything was coated with a fine layer of dust, but it was all as Jon had left it. Martin immediately went to the bedroom and took the sheets and rugs out into the yard to beat the dust out of them while Jon set about dusting everything else. By the time the sun was setting, the house looked more-or-less like normal, and Martin made them dinner with the food he had purchased in Bree three days earlier. It was nothing special, but it was enough to tide them over to the next morning, and that, Jon decided, was good enough for him.

After dinner, Jon opened an old bottle of wine for the two of them and started a fire in the hearth. They sat in silence for hours watching it burn. Jon’s home was as it had always been, but it felt alien after all the change he had been through. Gertrude was dead; Tim and Sasha were dead; the others were settled elsewhere, and though Jon knew he would be able to visit them, they felt so far away as to almost be gone completely. Martin was there, though, sitting by Jon’s side, and that was a comfort in itself. Jon reached out to hold Martin’s hand, and Martin took it with practiced ease.

They went to bed that night as they had every night for months, holding each other close. “Love you,” Martin muttered, and Jon signed the same against Martin’s heart. Outside, Jon could smell night-blooming jasmine, its scent wafting through the open window. It had been two years since he had last smelled it; it was enough to send him sleep within the span of a few short minutes, which was a blessed relief after such a long journey back.

All was peaceful in the Shire, and for that, for the feeling of warm arms around him, for the way Martin snored quietly beside him, for a chest unbowed and a mind unburdened, Jon was grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! If you did, please leave a comment/kudos.
> 
> Thanks again to @[aibari](https://aibari.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing and to @[cthulu-time](https://cthulu-time.tumblr.com/) for the art in part 1 of this series. Y'all are amazing!


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